Daniel believed that, too.
Not immediately. Not without questions. But when Evelyn began crying and said she couldn’t imagine why I would take money from my own daughter, I saw something change behind his eyes.
Suspicion.
That single look followed me for months.
It followed me into our bedroom, where Daniel apologized without ever quite withdrawing the accusation.
It followed me to the small apartment where June and I lived during our separation.
And it followed me back when Daniel finally admitted that he wanted to repair our marriage.
We had been trying for seven weeks.
Now, in Evelyn’s living room, my husband held a box that made his mother look genuinely frightened.
“Open it,” I said.
Evelyn’s eyes flashed toward me.
“You have caused enough damage in this family, Sarah.”
Daniel lowered his gaze to the brass clasp.
For one terrible second, I thought he would surrender again.
Then he opened it.
Inside were a leather notebook, several folded documents, a small silver flash drive, and a photograph of Thomas standing on the front porch with a little girl I didn’t immediately recognize.
There was also a sealed letter.
Daniel picked it up.
His name was written across the front in his father’s familiar handwriting.
Beneath it were six words.
If your mother says I lied.
Daniel stopped breathing for a moment.
Evelyn made a faint sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
“That isn’t what you think.”
Daniel carefully broke the seal.
The first paragraph was dated three weeks before his father died.
He read silently at first.
Then his lips began to tremble.
“Dad knew,” he whispered.
“Knew what?” I asked.
