“I want to see him,” I admitted.
Rebecca’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
But I did know.
A part of me wanted to look into his face and find something. Shame. Regret. Fear. Some sign that the man who had bought me flowers from corner stalls had been real, even if only for a little while.
My father’s voice was quieter than Rebecca’s. “You’re looking for the version of him you married.”
I blinked hard.
“Yes.”
“He may show you exactly that version if he thinks it will work.”
That was the trouble with betrayal. It did not only break trust in another person. It made you suspicious of your own memory.
By noon, Elias had shifted from wounded husband to concerned rescuer.
Baby, I’m sorry if I upset you. Just tell me where you are. We can fix this.
Then:
My mom is crying. She thinks you hate her.
