Grant reached into his coat and pulled out a folder. Thick. Organized. Like this conversation had been waiting in it for years.
He held it out. “May I?”
I didn’t move.
Miranda took it from him and thrust it toward me like a weapon. “Read it.”
My hands shook as I took the folder. Papers slid inside: printed emails. Copies of letters. Legal documents. Photos.
I saw a letter addressed to Lila, dated months after Miranda’s birth. I saw a returned stamp. Undeliverable.
Another letter. Another.
Then a court filing: petition for custody. Denied due to inability to locate the mother and child.
I blinked hard, trying to make the words behave. “What is this?”
“It’s what happened,” Grant said quietly. “Not what she told you happened.”
Miranda’s voice trembled, but she pushed through it. “He said Mom disappeared. That she moved. That you moved.”
I stared at her. “I didn’t.”
“You did!” she cried, sudden and sharp. “We moved when I was six—remember? You said it was for a better school district.”
“It was,” I insisted. “It was because—”
“Because you were scared,” she shot back, eyes blazing now. “You were scared someone would take me away.”
The words sucked the oxygen out of the room.
I could barely hear myself. “Miranda… I was trying to protect you.”
