Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later
The gold rim of the hand mirror on the vanity caught the midday light, shining brightly in the quiet room.
I gripped the edge of the dressing table as Adele looked at me in disbelief.
We need to know what she did with the child support, Adele whispered, her veil shifting against her shoulder.
I pulled my hands back from the polished wood and checked the clock on the wall.
It was exactly ten minutes to two.
I will handle it, I said, though my voice sounded thin even to me.
I left her dressing room and walked down the carpeted hallway toward the church office, intending to find a quiet space to collect my thoughts, but the door was already half open.
The office was small, smelling of old paper and the lemon wax the ladies used on the oak desks.
Maya stood by the green vinyl chair near the window, her fingers tapping her diamond necklace.
She closed the heavy door behind me with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small room.
You were speaking to Harry in the parking lot, she said, her voice high and tight.
He asked me about the child support, I said. He thinks I refused it.
Maya took a step closer, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor.
She did not deny it, nor did she look away.
I have worked too hard for this life to let you ruin it over some old letters, she said.
The letters you never opened? I asked.
They were from a life I had already left behind, she said. You had no right to keep writing to me.
They were from your daughters, I said. Shannon was four years old when you left. She drew a picture of a bluebird for your birthday.
And I am here now, Maya said, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. I am helping Adele with her future.
If you whisper one more word of that nonsense to Harry, I will make sure he cuts off the tuition fund for Adele, she said.
The room felt suddenly cold.
That is twenty-two thousand dollars for her final year, I said.
