“You did?”
“For years.”
I looked at her.
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Shame becomes very convincing when you’ve practiced it long enough.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because it applied to both of us.
The next morning, Lily did not speak to me until almost noon.
She came downstairs wearing sweatpants and one of my old college shirts.
Her prom dress was draped over a chair upstairs.
A night I had hoped would become one of her favorite memories had instead detonated our family history.
I was making coffee.
She sat at the kitchen table.
I didn’t ask how she was.
That question felt insulting.
Instead I said, “The letters are in my closet.”
She stared at the table.
“Bring them.”
I did.
Twenty-seven envelopes.
Some opened.
Most not.
She looked at the first postmark.
Her seventh birthday.
Then another.
Christmas.
Another.
Fourth grade.
Her hands started shaking.
“Did you read them?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
“I told myself I needed to know what he was saying to you.”
“That’s not why.”
No.
It wasn’t.
“I was afraid he’d tell you his side.”
She looked at me.
“And you didn’t want me comparing.”
I sat across from her.
“No.”
“What did you think would happen?”
“I thought you’d love him and resent me.”
She blinked.
There it was.
The insecurity underneath years of justification.
“So you made sure I couldn’t.”
“Yes.”
I had never hated myself more than in that moment.
Lily opened one envelope.
Read.
Then another.
I watched expressions move across her face.
Anger.
Confusion.
Grief.
At one point she laughed.
That hurt too.
There was an entire relationship happening on paper that I had prevented in real life.
After nearly an hour, she folded one letter carefully.
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“You don’t have to know.”
“I love you.”
I cried.
“I love you too.”
“But I’m really angry.”
“You should be.”
“I don’t trust you right now.”
I nodded.
“That makes sense.”
She looked almost irritated that I wasn’t defending myself.
Then she asked:
“Are you going to tell me you did it because you loved me?”
“No.”
