“I know that now.”
Helen reached into her handbag. This time she removed a small sealed envelope.
Her name was written across it.
“Maggie gave me this the day she asked me to go.”
Dad didn’t take it.
I did.
Inside was one page.
Helen had kept it for eight years.
Mom’s handwriting became shakier toward the bottom.
“I know what I am asking you to give up.”
“But I am dying, Helen.”
“You are not.”
“If you stay, he will love you after me.”
“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for years.”
“But he will.”
“And I cannot spend my final days watching the woman who will eventually take my place.”
“Please give me this one selfish thing.”
“Leave before I do.”
Dad sat down.
For eight years, he’d believed Helen disappeared because watching Mom die had been too painful.
Helen had believed Dad wanted her gone.
I looked at the ruined photograph. One lie. Eight years.
