Brenda poured two glasses of wine before sitting opposite me, her eyes soft but unwavering. The envelope lay between us on the desk, a fragile boundary between the past and whatever waited ahead. I traced my father’s handwriting with my thumb, remembering the steadiness of his hands even when the cancer had stolen his strength. He had always been deliberate, never careless. If he’d hidden this among the roses he planted for my marriage, he meant for it to be found only now—after the divorce, after his death, after Misty’s threat.
“Whatever is in there,” Brenda said quietly, “it won’t change how much he loved you. It will only clarify what he chose to protect.” I broke the seal. As I unfolded the pages, my father’s voice seemed to rise from the ink—explaining Jesse, explaining Simon, explaining why the will tomorrow would feel like a betrayal to everyone but me, the only one who already knew the truth.
