Vanessa had never behaved that way in front of me.
She was the woman who reminded Ethan about school assignments, helped Nia choose birthday presents, and sat beside me when grief made sleeping impossible.
Now she was standing over my daughter with fury written across her face.
“VANESSA!”
My voice filled the room.
She turned sharply.
The expression on her face changed so quickly that it frightened me.
Anger disappeared.
Surprise replaced it.
Then came something almost resembling concern.
“James!”
She took a breath.
“Thank God you're home. The children have completely lost control.”
Nia stared at her.
Ethan's mouth fell open.
I looked toward the cracked television.
Then toward my daughter.
“Nia, are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
But tears were streaming down her face.
Vanessa stepped toward me.
“James, Ethan just destroyed a twelve-thousand-dollar television, and Nia has been going through private documents—”
“Don't.”
The word came from Ethan.
Quiet.
But unmistakably firm.
Vanessa stopped.
My son looked toward her.
His expression was one I'd never seen before.
Not ordinary teenage anger.
Not embarrassment.
He looked terrified.
And determined.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes.
“Ethan, you need to calm down.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I looked between them.
“What is going on?”
Nia stepped toward me.
She held out the papers.
“Dad, I found Mom's letters.”
My heart stopped.
Claire.
My first wife.
The mother of my children.
She had died two years and three months earlier after falling down the rear staircase of our home.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
I stared at the pages in Nia's hands.
“What letters?”
Vanessa moved quickly.
“James, those papers are private. Your daughter has been looking through old boxes and inventing ridiculous accusations.”
Nia began crying harder.
“I'm not inventing anything!”
Vanessa pointed at her.
“Watch your tone!”
I stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Then I looked toward Nia.
“Give me the papers.”
She hesitated.
For a moment, I saw something terrible in her eyes.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of what might happen when I read them.
Finally, she placed the pages in my hand.
The first was written in Claire's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
My wife had possessed beautiful, slightly slanted handwriting, with unusually long strokes on her capital letters.
I'd seen it on grocery lists.
Birthday cards.