I stared down at it. I stared and stared, and yet I couldn’t believe just what I was seeing. After I had told her no, made it perfectly clear that this part of my life was off limits, no questions asked. And suddenly it all made sense, the fact that my father hadn’t written in months, the reason Carolyn had been obsessing over the mail. I had completely attributed it to the excitement over query letters and the possibility of selling the book. And I now knew why she had stopped asking questions about my past months ago; she instead had asked my father, and I have no doubt that he had told her everything she wanted to know.

I looked at the letter again. I pondered tearing it to pieces and throwing it away. But I knew we were past that point. There was no ignoring it. Not at that point.

I hoofed it down the street and stood on the corner for a few minutes, trying to calm myself, but really the anger was only building. I could have trekked all the way to Indiana and I highly doubt I’d have been any less upset.

I took my time climbing the stairs, and when I reached the top, I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and pushed through the door. Carolyn was watching the fuzzy television with Thomas in her lap.

“Hi,” she said.

I bent over, placed my hands on the kitchen counter, and closed my eyes.

“What would you do—” I began.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, turning off the TV.

“What would you do,” I started again, opening my eyes and lifting my head. I glared at her. My fingers hurt from the death grip I had on the counter. “If somebody you loved . . . went and did something behind your back they promised they wouldn’t do?”

She deflated, hanging her head until she was staring at the floor. There was no doubt in her mind as to what had happened, and I’m sure she had feared it for some time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking so sheepish and sad that I almost couldn’t continue.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want the truth.”

“Okay,” she squeaked.

“Do you love me?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then tell me, Carolyn,” I said, my voice controlled even while I struggled mightily not to erupt. I wanted to, badly, wanted to break the counter in half and beat down the walls with it. “Why in the hell you wrote my father when I asked you not to, when I told you no?”

She shook her head and closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“How many letters?” I asked. She kept slowly shaking her head. A tear rolled down her cheek. “How many goddamn letters have you written him?” I screamed this time.