“Go ahead,” I say. “Open it. Open it and keep lying to me. Open it and face what your selfish choices did to a child... and to us.”
But before either of us can move, my mother takes the box, opens the trash bin, and dumps everything inside. No hesitation. She doesn’t even spare a glance at what’s inside.
“Mom, no—stop!” I shout, but it’s already too late.
I take a step forward, but I stop myself. Part of me realizes that all these objects brought nothing but pain to everyone involved... including their owner. Maya.
I close my eyes, and Chloe’s voice drifts back to me.“Do whatever you want with it. No one in our family wants those memories anymore.”
When I open them again, my mother is tying the black garbage bag shut. She grips the empty box in her other hand and carries them both out to the backyard. When she returns, she washes her hands methodically, as though she’s scrubbing away a stain that might crawl back if she misses a spot.
When she’s done, she smooths a stray strand of hair back into her bun—hair the exact same color as mine, only lighter now, the copper fading with time instead of deepening.
Everyone always said I was my mother’s carbon copy. I’ve never felt less like her than I do right now.
“You… you didn’t even want to see,” I say, stunned.
She straightens her spine, lifting her chin, choosing denial like it’s armor she’s worn her whole life.
“There was nothing in that box I care to see,” she says, her voice cold. “Nothing that changes how I see your father, our marriage, or our family. For all I know, those were lies. Fabricated by a twisted family trying to destroy people who are happy. People who know what love truly is.”
I shake my head, choking on a bitterness that rises faster than my breath. I turn to my father, my voice trembling with a fury I can barely contain.
“Still going to lie, Dad?” I ask, locking my eyes on his. “The person who gave me that box told me Grace,your Grace, wasn’t your first mistress. Tell me, was she the last?”
He steps closer. I don’t move.
“I'm sorry. Please forgive me,” he whispers. “I lied because I was afraid. Because I knew the truth would destroy you. I carry the shame every day for what I did. I never wanted it to touch you, or your mother, or our family. Everything happening right now is my fault. Because of a mistake I made. Even what happened with you and Colin.”
I shut my eyes, hurt and disbelief fighting for dominance in my chest. He dodged my question as if I never asked it. And that, more than anything he’s said, is answer enough.
“No, Dad. You didn’t make amistake. You madechoices.” My voice trembles, but I don’t look away. “You chose to be with a woman who wasn’t your wife. You chose to involve her daughter—a child—in something poisonous that could never end well.”
A breath catches in my throat.
“The same way Colin didn’t make a mistake. Colin wasn’t a victim. Hechoseto betray me. He chose to be with Maya. If he had chosen differently, chosen us, maybe she still would’ve found a way to punish us for your choices. But at least then, I’d still have the man I loved standing beside me.”
I look right at him, my eyes burning dry. There are no more tears left in me. Not for him, and not for all the pain he caused.
“And the fact that after all these years, you’re still calling it a mistake and not a choice? That makes me wonder if you even understand the weight of what you did.”
What sits in my throat like ashes is the question I can’t bring myself to ask aloud. The one that terrifies me more than the truth ever could,
Is he still choosing wrong? Still dressing choices up as accidents, calling betrayal a lapse instead of a decision?
“You’re right,” he says, his voice cracking. “It was a choice. A selfish, cruel, unforgivable choice. One I have not repeated… and never will.”
I search his eyes, desperate for even a small sign of honesty. But he looks away within seconds. The silence that follows feels like a confession of its own.
I turn to my mother. She’s still standing there, her gaze locked on the empty trash bin, as if she’s afraid the truth might claw its way back out.
“I don’t want either of you calling me anymore,” I say. “I don't want you contacting my children.”
My father reaches for my hand. And this time, I let him hold it, trying to figure out if there's still something familiar about him.
There isn’t. So I let this be our goodbye.
“You just need time. I’ll give you all the time you need,” he pleads. “Just… promise me you’ll forgive me. Let me fix this. Let me make amends.”
