“Because she knew Mom would make sure you got it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Emily followed me toward the elevators.
“She didn’t trust you to listen if she gave it to you directly.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
“Did she say that?”
“She said you might read anger into anything she wrote.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Emily gave me a tired look.
“Daniel, you spent eighteen months telling everyone that Claire was unhappy, cold, and impossible to reach.”
“She was unhappy.”
“Were you?”
I pressed the elevator button.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
The doors opened. We stepped inside.
For years, Emily had avoided taking sides between Claire and me. Even during the worst months, when everyone knew about Tessa, she had never called me a monster or Claire a saint.
Now she stood beside me with her arms folded, staring at the illuminated numbers above the door.
“What did Claire tell you?” I asked.
“Not enough.”
“Then what are these messages about?”
“She asked forty-three people to send you the same message once the divorce became final.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted you to understand that she wasn’t making a claim no one could verify.”
“What claim?”
The elevator opened.
She walked ahead of me, took the spare key from her purse, and unlocked my apartment.
Nothing appeared different at first.
The same gray sofa.
The same framed photographs I had stopped noticing.
The same half-empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter.
But the moment I stepped inside, I saw the dining table.
A large cardboard box sat in the center.
It was sealed with brown packing tape and labeled in Claire’s handwriting.
DANIEL — OPEN ALONE.
I looked at Emily.
“She left that here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she asked us not to.”
“Us?”
“Mom, me, and several other people.”
I moved toward the box.
My name looked strange in Claire’s handwriting now. Familiar and foreign at the same time.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re telling me you brought a box into my apartment without looking inside?”
“She made us promise.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“Everyone who messaged you.”
I turned around.
“Everyone?”
Emily nodded.
“She gave each person a letter.”
“For what?”
“Not letters. Copies.”
“Copies of what?”
She looked toward the box.
“Your life, apparently.”
I laughed, but there was nothing amused in it.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should open it.”
My fingers shook as I cut through the tape with a kitchen knife.
Inside were folders, envelopes, receipts, photographs, and a small black notebook.
The first folder was labeled 2016–2018.
The second: 2019–2021.
The third: 2022–2024.
The final folder had only one word on it.
NOW.
I picked up the first folder.
A receipt slid free and landed on the table.
It was from a private hospital in Evanston, dated eight years earlier.
The name on it was my mother’s.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
