I had been standing in the hallway with nine-month-old Shannon in my arms.

Adele was 13, barefoot on the stairs. Piper was eight. The triplets, Penelope, Mia, and Lucille, were five and sobbing in the living room because they could not understand why their mother was stuffing suitcases.

“Maya, slow down,” I had begged. “We can talk after the girls are asleep.”

“That’s all we ever do, Robert,” she snapped. “Talk. Count bills. Stretch groceries. And pretend this is enough.”

I lifted Shannon higher against my chest. “They are enough.”

Maya looked at our baby, then back at me.

“You can’t just walk out on six children.”

Her eyes flashed. “You can’t give me the life I want. But Harry can. He bought me a brand-new car and even took me to the Maldives, Robert. Do you understand the kind of life he gives me? The kind of life I deserve?”

“Maya,” I whispered. “Our daughter can hear you.”

She glanced toward Adele. “Then maybe she’ll learn not to settle.”

Then she slammed the door: no kiss for Shannon, no promise to call, only the door closing as six girls became my entire world at once.

—

Back in the kitchen, Adele sat across from me.

“I can tell her no,” I said. “This is your wedding.”

“Tell her she’s welcome.”

My stomach sank. “Adele.”

“She’s not coming for you. She’s coming to perform.”

“I know.”

“Then why let her?”

Adele studied me for a long moment. “Because you spent 15 years protecting us from the truth. I think it’s time the truth protected you.”

I went still.

“You know what I’m asking for.”

“The box stays where it is.”

“The box, Dad.”

Inside were 15 years of things I had sent to Maya, every one returned.

Birthday invitations. School photos. Recital programs. Graduation notices. Copies of emails. Returned envelopes. Cards the girls had made before they finally stopped asking if Mom might come next time.

I had not saved it for revenge.

I had saved it because one day my daughters might ask whether I had tried.

And I wanted to be able to say yes.

“That box is ugly,” I said.

“What she did was ugly,” Adele said. “The box is just proof.”

“This is your wedding. Not a courtroom.”

“She’s the one putting you on trial.”

I stood and held the back of a chair. “Let people think what they want, hon.”

“No, Dad. You’re exhausted from being both parents to all of us. You don’t need this extra pressure.”

Adele opened her folder and took out a printed message.

“She wrote me two weeks ago.”

I took the paper.

Maya had told Adele I was bitter. That I had made everything difficult. That I had kept the girls close because I wanted to punish her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to know what she was doing first.”

“And now?”

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