“Two years,” Morgan said.
I gripped the phone. “Two years? Are you kidding me?”
“Camille…”
“How could you keep this from me?”
She went quiet.
“You sat beside me last Mother’s Day,” I said. “You brought muffins. You watched me pack away the yellow curtains and pretend they were just ugly. All this time, you knew my husband was healing his heart with a little girl?”
“Are you kidding me?”
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Morgan’s breath shook. “I knew he was reading at Willow House. I knew about the checkers games and the books. I didn’t know he’d promised Matilda anything until near the end.”
“But you knew there was a Matilda.”
“Yes.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“That’s it?”
“You should have told me.”
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“No,” she whispered. “That’s just the only part I can say without turning it into an excuse.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyes. “Did you bring her today?”
“She begged to say goodbye.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes, Camille,” Morgan said. “I brought her.”
My laugh came out sharp.
“Atlas left me a note,” she said quickly. “He said if he ran out of time, I had to make sure you got the tape. I told Matilda the funeral might be too much.”
“She begged to say goodbye.”
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“For her?” I asked. “Or for me?”
“Both.”
“You let me stand there feeling insane, Morgan.”
“I thought if I told you first, you would never watch it.”
“Maybe I deserved that choice.”
“You did,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I wanted to hang up. Instead, I forced myself to breathe.
“Pick me up in the morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
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“You want me to come? Really?”
“I want the truth from someone who isn’t dead and apologizing through a television. You can drive me to Willow House. After that, you can explain exactly how my best friend ended up standing between me and my own marriage.”
***
Willow House was a wide brick home with blue shutters, muddy bikes by the porch, and paper suns in the windows.
Inside, it smelled like buttered toast and floor cleaner.
Melissa met us near the office, wearing a navy cardigan. She had gray in her curls and a calm face I wanted to trust and resent at the same time.
“I want the truth.”
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“You must be Camille,” she said.
I stiffened. “Apparently, everyone knows me.”
“No,” Melissa said gently. “Atlas talked about you. This is different.”
“Then talk to me,” I said. “No soft version. No protecting my heart. Tell me everything.”
She led me into a small reading room. An armchair sat by the window. A chessboard waited on the table. Beside it was a mug that read “World’s Okayest Volunteer.”
“Atlas talked about you. This is different.”
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Atlas would have loved that stupid mug.
“That was his chair,” Melissa said. “Every Sunday, Matilda saved it for him.”
***
I touched the back of Atlas’s chair. “He came every Sunday?”
“Every Sunday,” Melissa said. “Storms, holidays, even after treatments. Once, he had a fever, and I threatened to call you myself.”
“Why didn’t you?”
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