Rebecca stopped the recording when it ended.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Finally, my father said, “How much do they know?”
“Nothing about the trust,” I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. “Nothing about you. Elias knows my mother died and that I’m not close to my extended family. He thinks the apartment came from years of saving, plus some family money from an aunt.”
Rebecca sat down across from me. “And the apartment title?”
“In my name,” I said. “Only mine. I insisted. Elias complained at first, but I told him I’d saved before we met. He eventually said it didn’t matter because marriage meant everything was ours.”
Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “That phrase has ruined more people than greed itself.”
My father finally looked at me.
“Did he ever ask to be added to the title?”
“Twice,” I admitted. “Both times he made it sound romantic. Said he wanted us to feel like a team. I said no because…” I swallowed. “Because Mom’s voice was in my head.”
The mention of my mother moved through the room like a soft wind.
Rebecca leaned forward. “You listened to her when it mattered.”
I wanted that to comfort me. It didn’t. Not yet.
Because there was another truth sitting inside my chest, one I could barely stand to touch.
“I married him,” I said. “I stood in front of everyone and promised forever to someone who was planning to leave me before the first dance.”
My father came around the chair and sat beside me.
“You trusted the man he showed you,” he said. “That is not the same as being foolish.”
“But how did I not see it?”
Rebecca’s gaze softened. “Because practiced deception doesn’t always arrive wearing a mask. Sometimes it brings soup when you’re sick. Sometimes it remembers how you take your coffee. Sometimes it waits patiently for two years.”
I closed my eyes.
Elias had brought soup when I had the flu last winter. He had sat on the floor beside the couch, rubbing my feet through a blanket while old movies played on mute. He had kissed my forehead and said, “You don’t always have to be strong with me.”
The memory hurt more than the recording.
Because some part of it had felt real.
“What happens now?” I asked.
