Maya turned pale.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “How is this possible?”
Adele stepped beside her.
Her voice did not shake.
“Every year, Dad told us we could write to you if we wanted. He never forced us to hate you. He never said we couldn’t miss you. He just kept the letters safe.”
Maya looked at me then.
For the first time all day, she really looked.
Adele continued, “You told me everything was Dad’s fault. But this box is what Dad carried quietly while raising six daughters alone.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably.
Adele turned toward him too.
“And you should know something. My father never had Maldives trips or designer bags to offer us. But he had breakfast ready. He had rent paid. He had bedtime stories. He had two tired hands that never let go.”
The room was completely still.
Then Adele lifted the final envelope.
“This is your seat card, Mom.”