“No. Helen married your friend.”
“Eventually.”
I stared at him.
“Do you have her letters?”
His expression shifted.
“I burned them.”
“You burned them?”
“I couldn’t keep reading the words that stole you from me.”
It sounded heartbreaking.
At the time, I thought it was.
Helen called that evening.
I declined the call.
She called again.
I turned off my phone.
The next morning, she came to my door.
“Sis? I know you’re home.”
I stood behind the curtain and didn’t move.
Danny touched my shoulder.
“Don’t hate her because of me.”
I looked at him.
“She stole fifty-five years from us.”
“We don’t have enough time left for hate.”
That sentence convinced me more than almost anything else he’d said.
What kind of liar defended the person who had supposedly ruined his entire life?
If only I’d realized I was asking the wrong question.
