He didn’t slow down until we were nearly outside. The music softened behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass in celebration. It felt grotesque.

“What’s going on?” I whispered sharply. “You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”

“I almost didn’t come,” he said. His hand trembled when he finally released my arm. “I was told not to.”

“Told by who?”

Robert glanced back toward the reception hall, then lowered his voice. “Mom.”

I stared at him.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. I swear.”

“You’re saying Mom told you something… after she died?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Before.”

We stood near a row of coat racks, half concealed by tall plants. Guests passed by, smiling, unaware that my legs felt ready to give out beneath me.

“A lawyer called me this morning. I almost ignored it—I thought it was spam.”

“And?”

“He knew Mom’s name. Her illness. The exact day she died.”

My mouth went dry.

“He said Mom asked him to contact me when Dad remarried,” Robert went on. “Specifically, when Dad married Laura.”

A chill traced its way down my spine.

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she—”

“She found out,” Robert cut in.

“Found out what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled an envelope from inside his jacket—thick, cream-colored, sealed.

“She wrote this after she knew she was dying. She told him to hold onto it until the right moment.”

My gaze fixed on the envelope.

“What’s inside?”

“The truth about Dad.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Dad stayed. He cared for her. He was there every day.”

“That’s what she believed too,” my brother said softly.

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