The voice she used when she wanted him to remember their better years.
The first date.
The cabin weekend.
The night she sat beside him during the anniversary of Maya’s death.
The time she drove Lily to urgent care when Daniel was trapped in an airport.
The birthday cake she spent six hours decorating because Lily wanted butterflies.
The woman before him was not only a villain from the last twenty minutes.
That made everything harder.
She had been kind.
She had also done this.
Both facts existed.
“Can we talk alone?”
Daniel looked toward Camille.
His sister nodded.
“I’ll be next door.”
She pointed at Simone.
“If you go near Lily, I will forget this dress cost four thousand dollars.”
“Camille.”
“I’m serious.”
She left.
Daniel closed the connecting door.
Simone sat.
The wedding gown spread around her.
For the first time she looked tired rather than polished.
Daniel remained standing.
She whispered:
“I love you.”
He believed her.
That was the terrible part.
“I believe you.”
Hope moved across her face.
Then he said:
“But I don’t know what your love means anymore.”
Her eyes filled.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can love me and still try to control my daughter.”
“I wasn’t controlling her.”
“You cut her hair while she cried.”
“I panicked.”
“About hair?”
“About today.”
“Why?”
Simone pressed both hands against her forehead.
“Because everything had to be right.”
“Why?”
She looked up.
“Because everyone has been waiting for me to fail.”
“Who?”
“Your family.”
Daniel frowned.
“My family likes you.”
“Camille tolerates me.”
“Camille tolerates almost everyone.”
“Your mother compares me to Maya.”
“My mother has never—”
“She does without saying it.”
Daniel stopped.
Simone continued.
“Maya is always perfect because she died.”
The sentence hurt.
He almost reacted.
Then waited.
Simone wiped her eyes.
“I know that sounds horrible.”
“Yes.”
“But you know what I mean.”
He did.
Dead people are protected from future mistakes.
Maya would forever remain thirty-two.
Beautiful.
Loved.