Helen’s eyes filled.
“Because she asked me to.”
I stared at her. “Mom told you to leave?”
“Three weeks before she died.”
Dad’s head snapped toward her.
“What?”
Helen went pale.
“You didn’t know?”
Dad stood so quickly his chair struck the wall. “Helen.”
“She told me you knew.”
“No.”
For the first time, Helen looked really frightened.
Dad said, “What exactly did she say?”
Helen’s voice shook.
“She said you wanted your final weeks together without me around. She said you felt guilty asking me to leave yourself.”
Dad stared at her.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
Helen reached into her handbag. This time she removed a small sealed envelope.
Her name was written across it.
“Maggie gave me this the day she asked me to go.”
Dad didn’t take it.
I did.
Inside was one page.
Helen had kept it for eight years.
Mom’s handwriting became shakier toward the bottom.
“I know what I am asking you to give up.”
“But I am dying, Helen.”
“You are not.”
“If you stay, he will love you after me.”
“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for years.”
