Rachel gripped the counter so hard her knuckles whitened. “A possibility?”
“I received your first letter before Evan did,” my mother said. “It came to the house in error, forwarded from an old address. I made a decision I believed was necessary at the time.”
The apartment seemed to fall away.
“What decision?” I asked.
My mother’s voice changed. For the first time in my life, she sounded uncertain. “Not over the phone.”
“No,” I said. “Now.”
Another pause.
Then she said, “Because Rachel wasn’t the only woman who wrote to you that week.”
No one moved.
“What does that mean?” Rachel whispered.
Before my mother could answer, there was a knock at the apartment door.
Not a polite tap. Not loud, either. Just three measured knocks, calm and deliberate.
Rachel and I stared at each other.
The children went quiet in the living room.
I crossed to the door with the phone still glowing in Rachel’s hand. Through the peephole, I saw Noelle standing in the hallway, her face pale, her wedding ring box held tightly between both hands.
And beside her stood my father, holding a sealed envelope addressed to Rachel.
