Naomi put an arm around her. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Aurelia said, her voice raw. “I’ve been lying. There’s no gallery show. There never was. I haven’t painted anything in three years.”
Rosalind looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
Nobody spoke.
Night six: a letter for Violet.
When she was fourteen, she’d entered a design competition for a local charity. They needed a new community center. Violet drew plans—simple, functional, beautiful. She won. The charity used her design.
“You used to create things that helped people,” Warren read. “Not just things that looked expensive.”
Violet didn’t cry. She just stared at the floor.
After Warren left that night, something changed.
My daughters didn’t go upstairs. They stayed in the living room. And for the first time in years, they talked to each other. Not about work. Not about money. About the letters. About the memories.
I stood at the top of the stairs listening.
“Do you remember that bird?” Naomi asked Celeste.
“Yeah,” Celeste said quietly. “It flew away after two months. I cried for a week.”
“You were always like that,” Rosalind said. “You cared too much. I… used to.”
Celeste said, “Silence.”
Then Violet: “Do you think Dad was right? Do you think we’ve changed that much?”
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