I sat there almost an hour, holding it. “She’s told you for twelve years she doesn’t want this,” I finally whispered to myself. “You have to hear her.” I unwrapped the frame slowly and put it on the top shelf with all the others that had come home to me, unopened. I didn’t tell David. I just went downstairs and made dinner like it was any other day.
Three days passed. I almost felt lighter — like I’d finally set something down.
Then the doorbell rang.
A young man in a brown uniform stood on the porch with a clipboard. “Ma’am, are you Alice? I’ve got a heavy one for you.” He and David had to carry the box inside together.
It was from Chloe. I was stunned. Why would she send me anything now? On top sat a note in her handwriting.
“Maybe Dad will finally tell you himself why I left home. It was never about you, Alice. Look inside, and you’ll understand everything.”
David went very still beside me — the kind of stillness that comes over someone the moment they’ve been dreading finally arrives.
“David. What does she mean?”
“She’s bitter, Alice. You know how she is.”
“I don’t know how she is. That’s the whole point.“
