read it out loud, because honestly it’s insultingly small, divided by six.”
Gasps moved through the hall.
I closed my eyes.
I had never told the girls about that document. I’d kept it for fifteen years, in a drawer, hoping I’d never have to. I don’t know how Adele found it.
Later she told me: she’d found it at twelve, the same night she found me forging the birthday cards. She’d kept the secret for eleven years, carrying it the way children carry the things adults think they’ve hidden.
“So here’s what I don’t understand,” Adele said, and now, for the first time, her voice had an edge. “You signed away your rights to us. Legally. Completely. For money.
So why are you here?
Fifteen years of silence. No cards. No calls. Not one birthday. Not when June was in the hospital. Not when Sophie broke her arm. Not once.
