Hannah’s voice thinned. “I was twenty-six when she died.”
“I know.”
“You could have told me then.”
“I was afraid Rosalie would destroy the evidence. I told myself I needed time to protect it. Then the company grew. Luke joined us. You married him. Every year, telling you became harder.”
“You had twelve years.”
“I know.”
“You had seventeen.”
Charles nodded.
Hannah pressed the letter against her chest. “Did my mother ask about me?”
“Every time I saw her.”
“Did she know I was cooking for Rosalie?”
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
A pain moved through Hannah’s face. She turned away from him.
“She knew?”
“She knew you were trying to keep peace.”
“Did she think I was weak?”
“No. She thought you were kind. She worried that people would mistake your kindness for permission.”
Hannah’s mouth trembled.
That sentence sounded like Lucía. It carried the same blunt tenderness her mother had used when teaching her to chop onions, when correcting her accounts, when telling her that a full heart still needed a locked door.
Rosalie suddenly reached for the smaller envelope.
Hannah saw the movement.
This time, she stepped between Rosalie and the table.
“Stop.”
Rosalie’s eyes were bright with panic. “You do not understand what is in there.”
“Then tell me.”
“It is private.”
“It has my mother’s name on it.”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
Charles turned to her. “It is the confession you wrote.”
