“Yesterday he brought letters my mom wrote to you when I was a baby.”
I remembered them.
Claire loved writing letters even when we lived close enough to see each other every week.
She wrote about everything.
My terrible cooking.
Her marriage.
Baby Amelia learning to clap.
Ordinary pieces of a life none of us knew would end so soon.
“My dad told me nobody on Mom’s side cared what happened to us,” Amelia said.
“And then I sat in my hotel room reading Mom’s handwriting.”
“She wrote about you constantly.”
“Like you were part of every day.”
She swallowed.
“Like there wasn’t any version of her family where you weren’t right in the middle.”
I couldn’t speak.
Robert looked at me.
“That was the plan.”
“Give her enough evidence to know the truth before she ever had to face you.”
Part of me understood.
