We sat in silence for hours, the letter between us on the kitchen table. I wanted to believe it was fake, some cruel trick. But the handwriting, the details — it all felt undeniable.
I imagined Emily in her dress, spinning under the reception lights, glowing with joy. And my chest ached.
By dawn, Dad was resolute. “We can’t delay. The longer we wait, the worse it gets.”
The Confrontation
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