I showed Adele the message, expecting anger.
Instead, she smiled.
Not warmly.
Knowingly.
“Dad,” she said, “tell her she’s welcome.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” Adele replied. “I’ll take care of everything.”
That sentence stayed with me for days.
I didn’t want Maya there. I didn’t want her perfume in the same room where my daughters had learned to live without her. I didn’t want her rewriting the past in front of people who had not been there to see the truth.
But Adele was the bride.
It was her day.
So I swallowed my fear and sent Maya the invitation details.
Her reply came almost immediately.
“Perfect. Harry and I will come. Everyone should see that we’re all mature now.”
Mature.
That was what people called old wounds when they wanted the wounded person to stop speaking.