“Your father loved you too much to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She looked at Claire.
Then back at me.
“Last summer, your father saw Brandon with another woman.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where?”
“Brookfield.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know her name.”
I already did.
Natalie.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He wanted proof. He followed Brandon once. Then he got sick again.”
Dad’s cancer had returned briefly before his final remission.
Mom’s voice trembled.
“He told me if he could prove anything, he would tell you. But then…”
She stopped.
I knew.
Then he died.
My head buzzed.
“Did he ever find proof?”
Mom looked away.
That tiny movement was all I needed.
“Mom.”
“There was an envelope.”
“What envelope?”
“Your father kept documents in his workshop. Before I sold the house, I found an envelope with your name on it.”
“Where is it?”
“I brought it.”
I stared at her.
“You’ve had it for three months?”
“I didn’t open it.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because you were happy.”
The sentence hurt more than I expected.
Mom began crying.
“I lost your father. I couldn’t stand the idea of handing you something that might make you lose your husband too.”
“Where is it?”
“In my suitcase.”
We went upstairs.
Mom knelt beside the small suitcase she had carried out of my apartment the night before.
From beneath a stack of sweaters, she removed a yellow envelope.
My father’s handwriting covered the front.
HANNAH.
Nothing else.
My fingers shook opening it.
Inside were photographs.
Brandon.
Natalie.
Outside a restaurant.
Inside Brandon’s truck.
Entering a condo building together.
Dates written on the back.
Ten months earlier.
Nine months earlier.
Eight months earlier.
Then I found a note.
My father’s handwriting was shakier than I remembered.
Hannah,
I hope I am wrong.
If I am, burn this and forgive an old man for worrying too much.
