A memory surfaced instantly.
Susan had brought a little girl.
Brown curls.
Missing front tooth.
I had bought her a cupcake.
I grabbed the back of the chair.
“You brought his daughter to me?”
Susan started crying again.
“I didn’t think—”
“That seems to be the family motto.”
Emily looked horrified.
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“I know.”
I said it immediately.
She nodded, relieved.
That distinction became necessary over and over.
Michael and Susan had choices.
Emily had circumstances.
I returned to the letter.
The second major revelation came halfway down page three.
Michael had planned to tell me.
Not years earlier.
Not when Emily was born.
Not when the affair began.
Last year.
After his diagnosis.
He wrote that death had made secrecy feel obscene.
Susan had begged him not to tell me while he was sick.
I looked at her.
“You stopped him?”
Her shoulders collapsed.
