I understood that it was enough.
Clara arrived at ten.
She was a slight woman in her late sixties, with silver hair cut neatly at her jaw and a leather case held against her chest. When she entered the house, her eyes went immediately to Evelyn.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Evelyn stood near the fireplace. “You opened my letters.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Clara’s hands trembled around the case.
“Your divorce was already difficult. Mrs. Moretti told me Adrian had instructed the office not to bring him personal correspondence. She said she would handle anything related to you.”
“And you believed her?”
“I believed I was following his wishes.”
“You never asked him.”
“No.”
The answer was honest and painful.
Clara set the case on the table and opened it. Inside were envelopes tied with a faded blue ribbon, medical records, and copies of legal documents.
“I kept everything,” she said. “I knew it should have been delivered, but once I understood what Mrs. Moretti was doing, I was afraid to confront her. Then months passed. And years.”
