Chloe’s eyes filled with heavy tears. “So she could have easily walked back into our lives right then?”
“Yes,” Abigail said firmly, her voice entirely devoid of softness. “She could have easily come back.”
The letter written for their thirteenth birthday confirmed it in painful detail. “I actually drove to your house on your twelfth birthday,” Evelyn wrote. “I parked my car six houses down the street and watched through the window as the three of you hung bright balloons on the front porch with your father.”
Evelyn had sat in her parked car for forty agonizing minutes before turning the ignition key and driving away forever. Harper covered her mouth in shock while Chloe began to cry softly.
Abigail did not cry at all. Instead, she picked up the letter she was holding and tore it directly in half.
“Abigail, wait,” I said softly.
“No, Dad,” Abigail snapped, tearing the paper into smaller pieces. “Brandon lied to her back then, and that is on him. But after she found out the truth nine years ago? Everything after that is entirely on her.”
She dropped the shredded paper onto the table, and nobody in the room attempted to argue with her logic.
At the very bottom of the metal box lay one final white card that contained no long letter, but rather a single local phone number. Underneath the numbers, Evelyn had written a short message: “I will be staying at the St. Matthew Hospice Center in the neighboring town until I am no longer able to receive visitors. You owe me absolutely nothing. If none of you choose to visit me, I will completely understand.”
Chloe stared blankly at the phone number. Harper then asked the difficult question that none of us truly wanted to face. “Do we actually go see her, Dad?”
Abigail answered instantly without hesitation. “No, I am definitely not going.”
Chloe whispered, “I honestly do not know what the right choice is.”
Harper looked directly at me. “What do you think we should do, Dad?”
For twenty-one long years, I had repeatedly imagined what I would say if Evelyn ever walked back through our front door. None of those imaginary speeches seemed useful anymore.
“I think she does not get to make this final decision for you,” I told my daughters quietly. “She decided when to leave our home, she decided when not to come back, and she decided when to send these velvet boxes to us. This final choice belongs entirely to the three of you.”
