That evening, while the girls watched television and Richie stirred spaghetti at the stove, I stood by the window, studying the apple tree’s gnarled branches.
He slipped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “If you want, Tanya, I’ll be there. You don’t have to face this alone.”
I leaned back against his chest.
“I just need answers, Rich. He was always so kind. Every Christmas he’d leave an envelope of cash so we could spoil the girls with candy.”
“Then we’ll figure out what he left you. Together, if that’s what you want.”
My husband kissed the top of my head before returning to serve the girls’ dinner.
I felt a little more grounded.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I paced the house in restless loops, stopping at the back window. My reflection stared back at me—brown hair pulled into a thinning ponytail, tired eyes, pajama pants sagging at the knees.
I didn’t look like someone prepared to unearth buried truths.
I remembered something my mother used to say:
“You can’t hide what you are, Tanya. Eventually, everything finds its way to the surface.”
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