“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
He lowered his head.
For twenty-seven years, I had imagined what I would say if Alex ever finally admitted the truth.
None of those imagined speeches mattered.
Because Sophie walked forward.
She stood in front of her father.
Then asked quietly, “Did you send me birthday cards?”
Alex looked at her.
“Every year.”
“I never got them.”
His eyes moved toward me.
I shook my head.
“I never saw them either.”
Maya, who had accompanied us, immediately asked, “Where did you send them?”
“To Evelyn's old post office box.”
I stared at him.
“I closed that box eleven years ago.”
Alex went still.
“But the letters I received from Sophie came from that box.”
Nobody spoke.
Seven letters telling Alex his daughter hated him.
Birthday cards that never reached Sophie.
Someone had been controlling the communication long before Jake entered our lives.
Maya said what we were all thinking.
