Chapter 8
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to remember that you were growing, even when I couldn’t see you.”
His eyes filled.
This time, he didn’t hide it.
I sat beside him.
“Do you want to know what I remember about you?”
He nodded.
“You hated socks. You used to pull them off the moment I put them on. And when you were tired, you would press your cheek against my collarbone.”
He smiled through the tears.
“I still hate socks.”
“I suspected as much.”
Alexander turned from the window.
I could feel his eyes on us, but I did not look at him.
Ethan leaned closer.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Did you stop loving Dad?”
The question landed more quietly than the others.
I glanced toward Alexander.
He looked away.
“I stopped trusting him,” I said. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“Do you still love him?”
I took a breath.
“Love can survive many things. It doesn’t always mean two people should return to the life they had.”
Ethan considered this.
“Could you ever trust him again?”
“I don’t know.”
Alexander’s face remained turned toward the window.
Ethan nodded slowly.
“I think he wants you to.”
“Then he has to understand that wanting isn’t enough.”
A soft chime sounded from the hallway.
Margaret’s old housekeeper, Nora, entered carrying a folded coat.
“Mrs. Hale left this in the west hall,” she said.
She offered it to Alexander.
A small brass key lay on top.
The same key Rebecca had shown me.
Alexander picked it up.
His eyes shifted to mine.
“Where did she get this?”
I stood.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
He closed his fingers around it.
“The west-wing archive has been sealed since my father died.”
“Then why does Rebecca have a key?”
“She shouldn’t.”
“Margaret says Elena’s credentials were used to access files.”
Alexander’s expression changed completely.
“Who told you that?”
“Your mother.”
He glanced toward the sitting room.
“What else did she tell you?”
“That my letters were intercepted.”
His face went still.
“What letters?”
I took the bundle from my bag and placed it on the table.
Alexander stared at the envelopes.
For several seconds, he did not touch them.
Then he picked up the first one.
His eyes moved over my handwriting.
“This was sent to me?”
“To your mother.”
“It was addressed to me.”
I looked closely.
He was right.