“What do you mean?”
“Twenty-three birthday cards,” she repeated, crying harder. “One for every year since I was two.”
My chest went tight.
“They were never opened,” she continued. “Because I never accepted them.”
I remembered those birthdays.
Every year Dad bought her a card.
Every year she refused it.
Sometimes she’d leave it on the table untouched. Sometimes she’d push it back toward him and say she didn’t want anything from someone who wasn’t her real father.
But Dad always kept them.
I never knew he saved them all.
“They’re still sealed,” Lily said, her voice shaking. “Every single one.”
She took another breath.
“And that’s not all.”
Inside the box were stacks of receipts—neatly organized in envelopes.
College tuition.
Textbooks.
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