“I never said this,” I told Jessi, struggling to control my anger. “I didn’t even know this letter existed.”
“I believe you didn’t write it,” Jessi replied. “But that doesn’t mean I knew what you would have chosen back then.”
Her words hurt because I had given her almost no reason to trust me.
During our divorce, wounded pride had controlled me. I refused every attempt Jessi made to explain the innocent photograph of her with Luca Vance. I changed my contact numbers and left my mother responsible for the mail arriving at my old address.
Leo remained near the Christmas tree, carefully examining his cardboard star. He could not hear our quiet conversation, but Jessi closed the wooden box and asked me to leave before he noticed how upset we were.
Every part of me wanted to stay.
I wanted to sit on the floor beside my son and somehow recover seven missing years in one evening. I wanted to know his first word, his favorite food, what frightened him, what made him laugh.
