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“No. If you’re implying what I think you are—”
“I’m telling you what Mom wrote. Dad had been seeing someone else for most of their marriage.
I felt dizzy. “Her sister.”
“There’s more,” Robert interrupted. “There’s a child.
One that everyone thought belonged to someone else.
Robert looked back at the wedding hall again. At the smiling guests. At our father.
“I’m saying,” he whispered, “that this wedding didn’t start after Mom died.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he raised a hand.
“Not here. We need privacy. And time.
Because once I finish telling you what’s in that letter…”
“…you’re going to realize Mom knew she was being betrayed while she was dying.”
The music swelled behind us.
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