I stare into his compassionate eyes. My own well with fresh tears. “Mom came home early.” The tears fall, hot and heavy, and my breathing hitches.
My father goes still. “What? How do you know that?”
“Her boarding pass was in her bag.” I can’t look at him. I can barely breathe through these tears. This is going to destroy him, but I can’t carry this weight on my own. “She came home early to be with Ian.”
“Juliet . . . how—”
“I saw it, okay?” The words practically explode out of me. “I saw it. There were pictures of them on her camera. In bed. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”
“Juliet—oh, sweetheart.” Breath comes out of him in a long sigh, and he pulls me back against his shoulder. His hand strokes over my hair again. “Juliet, I could never hate you.”
“I’m so mad at her,” I say. “How could she? How could she do this to you?”
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” I draw back and look at him. “I hate her. I wanted her to come back. So badly.”
He grimaces, and his eyes fill, too. “Don’t hate her, Juliet. Don’t hate her.”
“Did she love us at all?”
“You?” His voice breaks. “Oh yes. She loved you more than anything.”
I snort. “Not more than three days with Ian.”
He laughs, but it’s a sound full of sadness. “Yes, more than even that.” A pause. “She loved you so much that she stayed with me.”
“What?”
He shakes his head a little. “Your mother was—a bit of a free spirit.”
My voice won’t raise above a whisper. “You knew.”
“Not the details. I never wanted the details.” He snorts, the first sound of anger I’ve heard from him. “Now I know why he wanted that damn camera so badly. If I’m mad about anything, it’s that you found out this way.”
“But . . . but . . .” I swallow, my head spinning. “But you were so sad.”
His expression shifts. “I was sad. I am sad. Regardless of what she did, she was my wife. She was your mother. I was used to her being gone for long stretches of time, but this is a different kind of permanence. If that makes any sense.”
It does. “How long did that go on?”
He shrugs, a motion full of resignation. “I don’t know. Forever, probably. But I didn’t know for sure until a few years ago.”
I can’t wrap my head around this. “But . . . why did you stay with her?”
He chucks my chin and gives me a sad smile. “Because I loved you, and you loved her. I couldn’t take that away from you.”
My brain begins realigning the moments I’ve seen them together over the last few years. My memories are crowded with special times with my mother, but moments shared between my mother and father are suddenly understandably absent. I always thought this was a failing of my father’s, not being able to live up to her brilliance.
I never realized it was a failing of hers.
I swipe my hands across my face. “I wish I’d known.”
He cocks his head. “Do you really?”
“Yes. I thought she could do no wrong. I thought she was the bravest woman alive.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Jules. Your mother was a brave woman. She did amazing things.”
“She was selfish,” I snap. “Coming home to play house when she felt like it, and leaving you to do everything else.”
He winces. “Maybe a little. But we all have different capacities for failure. This doesn’t take away from her work. This doesn’t take away from her love for you.”
“She came home three days early for someone else.” I sniff and swipe tears off my cheeks again. She doesn’t deserve any more tears. Not now. “That’s going to take some time to get over.”
“I know,” he says softly. “I know.” He pauses. “But I was here for those three days. And I’ll be here for all the other days, as long as you need me.”
I throw myself into his arms.
He holds me, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
From: Juliet Young <[email protected]> To: Declan Murphy <[email protected]> Date: Thursday, October 10 5:51:47 AM
Subject: Letting go
I’m glad you never told me. I didn’t want to let go, either. In fact, I’m a little sad that it’s over. I keep thinking about our conversations in real life and replaying them with the knowledge of who you were on the other side of our letters. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t quite believe it’s really you.
There’s a lot you don’t show the world, you know. I think you should. Give them a new snapshot. Show them what you showed me.
And on that note . . . what now?
There’s an envelope on my dresser when I wake up. My name is written on the front, and it’s in Alan’s handwriting.
Inside, I find three hundred dollars.
My eyes almost fall out of my head.
I don’t know what to make of this. I pull on a T-shirt, grab the envelope, and go down to the kitchen. Mom and Alan are at the table, drinking coffee, speaking in low voices.
I hover in the doorway, immediately off balance.
“Declan,” says my mother.
“Hey.” I fidget with the envelope. The money is making me uncomfortable. I don’t like the feeling that they’re trying to buy me off somehow. It seems to weaken everything that happened between me and Alan last night.
I walk over to the table and throw it down. “I can’t take this.”
“We want you to have it,” my mother says softly.
I frown. “I don’t want your money.”
“It’s your money,” Alan says. “You earned it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You fixed my car. Didn’t you say three hundred was the going rate?”
“I said I would go to counseling or whatever you want.” I take a step back, my jaw set. “You don’t need to buy me off.”