“I tried to stay close to you. But after a while, I convinced myself your father was right. I thought keeping my distance was helping you.”
Anger rose inside me.
“You never asked what I wanted.”
“I know.”
His answer was barely a whisper.
Jeffrey looked toward the window.
“When your letters started coming less often, I assumed your father had been right. I thought you were moving on.”
“My letters slowed down because yours did.”
He nodded.
“I know that now.”
Then he paused.
“Actually, I knew before I married Margaret.”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Your father came to see me.”
“What?”
“He came to tell me he had been wrong.”
My father died the following year after a long illness.
According to Jeffrey, Dad had begun regretting what he had done.
He realized that he had interfered with a decision that should have belonged to us.
