“Stop doing that.”
“Grief makes people cling,” I said, even though my voice lacked conviction.
“Or hide.”
I shook my head. “No. If you’re implying what I think you are—”
“I’m telling you what Mom wrote. Dad had been seeing someone else for most of their marriage. And that was when she finally uncovered everything… the person wasn’t a stranger.”
I felt dizzy. “Her sister.”
“Dad had been seeing someone else for most of their marriage.”
“There’s more,” Robert interrupted. “There’s a child. One that everyone thought belonged to someone else.
“What are you saying?”
Robert looked back at the wedding hall again. At the smiling guests. At our father.
“I’m saying,” he whispered, “that this wedding didn’t start after Mom died.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he raised a hand. “Not here. We need privacy. And time. Because once I finish telling you what’s in that letter…”
“That this wedding didn’t start after Mom died.”
Then, Robert pressed the envelope into my hand.
“…you’re going to realize Mom knew she was being betrayed while she was dying.”
The music swelled behind us.
Someone lit sparklers.
And my hands began to shake as I felt the weight of the paper that was about to destroy everything.
Robert pressed the envelope into my hand.
**
I don’t remember deciding it. We just didn’t. Life went on a few feet away, while mine cracked open. We stepped into a small side room. Empty chairs. A coat rack. A window cracked open for air. Robert closed the door.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. My legs barely worked. Robert stood in front of me, holding the envelope as if it could bite.
“Promise me something first,” he said.
“What?”
“Promise you won’t interrupt. Not until I finish.”
“Promise me something first.”
I nodded. My brother broke the seal. The paper inside was folded carefully. Neat handwriting. Familiar.
“It starts like a goodbye,” Robert said quietly. “She wrote it knowing she wouldn’t be there to explain herself.”
