I devoted twenty years of my life to raising two little girls after promising their dying mother I would protect them. I never imagined that one day, those same girls would use that promise to push me out of their lives.
A moving truck sat in my driveway, every box inside labeled with my name. I stood at the end of the path in the evening drizzle, still wearing my hospital coat, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
Nika was near the door, taping a box shut. Angela handed bags to the driver, her movements deliberate, as if this had been planned.
“What is going on?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Neither answered. I stepped in front of them, blocking the walkway. Angela held out her phone, her eyes red-rimmed but dry, as though she had already cried all her tears.
“We can’t live with someone who lied to us our whole lives,” Nika said, staring past me.
“What lie? Sweetie, what are you talking about?” I demanded, looking from one daughter to the other.
Angela turned the screen toward me, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
On the phone was a photo of a handwritten letter. The slanted, careful script was unmistakable. My name appeared at the top. It was from a man named John.
