Eight years.
Eight years of believing his daughter hated me.
“Where are you?” Vanessa asked.
“At my apartment. I’m only 15 minutes away.”
“Can you come?”
“I don’t know.”
I heard her breathing.
Then she asked, “Is that really Rachel?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I would like to see you.”
Lily hesitated.
“Okay.”
The call ended.
Sam sat down heavily.
“Rachel, you don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Lily was angry about our wedding.”
I remembered that day.
I’d been 35.
Standing in a white dress, watching the church doors.
Sam had told me his 16-year-old daughter refused to attend.
I’d asked him to try again.
He’d said she wanted nothing to do with his new wife.
I believed him.
Because I always believed Sam.
“Did you tell Lily I didn’t want her at our wedding?” I asked.
He looked up sharply.
“Who said that?”
