I paused, then nodded. “If you’re happy, that’s what matters.”
His shoulders visibly eased, as if he’d just been absolved of something I didn’t yet understand.
The wedding invitation arrived six weeks later. An intimate ceremony. Immediate family only. I stared at it for a long time. Mom’s name was nowhere to be found—no mention, no acknowledgment of how little time had passed.
Still, I went.
I told myself it was the grown-up thing to do. The loving thing. The daughter thing. On the wedding day, surrounded by smiles, champagne, and gentle music, I kept repeating the same lie in my head.
This is just grief. Just two broken people finding solace.
Then Robert arrived late, eyes frantic, jacket half on. He grabbed my arm.
“Claire. We need to talk. Now.”
Before I could ask what was wrong, he said the words that shattered everything.
“You don’t really know who Dad is.”
He didn’t slow down until we were nearly outside. The music softened behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass in celebration. It felt grotesque.
“What’s going on?” I whispered sharply. “You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”
“I almost didn’t come,” he said. His hand trembled when he finally released my arm. “I was told not to.”
“Told by who?”
Robert glanced back toward the reception hall, then lowered his voice. “Mom.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m serious. I swear.”
“You’re saying Mom told you something… after she died?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Before.”
We stood near a row of coat racks, half concealed by tall plants. Guests passed by, smiling, unaware that my legs felt ready to give out beneath me.
“A lawyer called me this morning. I almost ignored it—I thought it was spam.”
“And?”
“He knew Mom’s name. Her illness. The exact day she died.”
My mouth went dry.
“He said Mom asked him to contact me when Dad remarried,” Robert went on. “Specifically, when Dad married Laura.”
A chill traced its way down my spine.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she—”
“She found out,” Robert cut in.
“Found out what?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled an envelope from inside his jacket—thick, cream-colored, sealed.
“She wrote this after she knew she was dying. She told him to hold onto it until the right moment.”
My gaze fixed on the envelope.
“What’s inside?”
“The truth about Dad.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Dad stayed. He cared for her. He was there every day.”
“That’s what she believed too,” my brother said softly.
“Read it,” I whispered.
“I can’t. Not here. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because once you know, there’s no going back.”
A burst of laughter erupted from inside. Someone called out my name.
“Claire! They’re about to cut the cake!”
I didn’t move.
“What did Mom discover?” I asked again.
Robert rubbed his face, like he was trying to pull himself awake.
“She discovered that Dad had been deceiving her for years—not about small things, but about who he truly was.”
“That’s deliberately vague,” I snapped. “Stop doing that.”
He met my eyes. “Do you remember how Laura suddenly moved closer when Mom got sick?”
“Yes. She said she wanted to help.”
