“You're right,” he said. “I let you down.”
Tessa shook her head as though she had prepared for a fight and didn't know what to do without one. “I don't want you to say that because you feel bad.”
“Then don't accept it just because I said it. You have every right to watch what I do next.”
Maya sat between them without knowing whether to breathe. It was the first time she had heard Tessa describe what had been happening inside her. She remembered Tessa's certificate arriving in the mail, the way she had barely glanced at it, the way she had laughed when Maya asked to see it. Maya had thought that meant Tessa didn't care. She realized now that there were many ways to hide something beneath the surface of a home.
“But you still shouldn't have torn my letter,” Maya said.
“I know.” Tessa's eyes filled. “I'm sorry.”
“You didn't just tear a piece of paper. You let me think Mom left me something bad. You let me think I had to leave.” Maya wiped her face on her sleeve. “I wouldn't have done that to you.”
Tessa nodded. There was no answer that could undo it. She wanted to hug Maya, because that used to work when they were little, but Maya shifted away as Tessa moved closer. The refusal stung. Tessa accepted it. It was the first consequence she had not tried to argue her way out of.
Marcus opened a folder marked FAMILY MATTERS. It contained letters from teachers and neighbors, copies of emergency contact forms, birthday invitations, and old photographs. They documented years of parent-teacher meetings, multiplication lessons, medical appointments, and ordinary afternoons. None of it proved Marcus was perfect. It showed he had been there. Maya found a crooked drawing she had made at seven: three stick figures beneath a yellow sun and a fourth squeezed onto the edge because she had run out of room.
“Why are there so many?” Maya asked.
“Because our lawyer asked us to put together a history of our family,” Marcus said. “Some of these are needed for the paperwork. Most aren't. I kept adding things because I was scared someone would look at one form and decide the years before it didn't count.”
Maya ran a finger over a drawing of three stick figures beneath a yellow sun. She remembered making it at seven, when her handwriting still floated above and below the lines. Across the bottom she had written, Me, Tessa, Dad, and Mom, then squeezed a fourth figure onto the edge because she had forgotten to leave enough space. Marcus had saved the crooked drawing all these years. Tessa leaned closer despite herself. One of the figures had long green hair because she had insisted on being a mermaid that summer.
“You saved that?” Tessa asked.
“Of course,” Marcus said. “You two argued for twenty minutes over who got to wear the crown.”