Audrey smiled — the calm river smile. “Mom, I’m so happy to see you. Come stand in the middle of the room. I have something to give you.”
A large box was carried out and set before Monica. The guests hushed. Monica, delighted, certain it was jewelry or an apology or a grandchild’s keepsake, tore off the lid.
On top lay a stack of cards. Hundreds of them. Fifteen years of birthday and Christmas cards, every one signed Love always, Mommy.
“Those are the cards you never sent,” Audrey said, clear as a bell. “Dad wrote every single one. For fifteen years he pretended to be you, so his daughters wouldn’t know the truth. He gave you a love you never earned, because he’s a better parent in your absence than you ever were in the room.”
Monica’s smile began to slip.
“And this,” Audrey said, lifting the second thing from the box, “is what you actually gave us.”
