Chapter 3
Denise didn't answer.
She stared at the photograph in my hands.
Then she looked toward the garage door.
"Marcus, you're making this bigger than it is."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"That photograph belonged in Malik's bedroom."
"He was obsessing over the past."
"His mother is not the past."
Denise rolled her eyes.
"You know what I mean."
"No. I don't think I do."
I carefully placed the broken frame on the workbench.
Then I opened the rest of the cardboard box.
There was Angela's old birthday card.
A blue sweater Malik had kept since childhood.
A handwritten letter.
And a small wooden jewelry box.
I recognized it immediately.
Angela had bought that box during our honeymoon.
She used to keep her wedding ring inside it at night.
After she died, I gave it to Malik.
He told me he wanted to keep something that had belonged to her.
I lifted the lid.
It was empty.
My heart began pounding.
"Where's the ring?"
Denise looked confused.
"What ring?"
"Angela's wedding ring."
She hesitated.
Then shrugged.
"I don't know."
I stared at her.
"You went through this box."
"I moved some things."
"Where's the ring?"
"Maybe Malik lost it."
I shook my head.
"He would never lose that ring."
Denise folded her arms.
"Then ask him."
I picked up the jewelry box and walked back toward the dining room.
Malik was sitting beside Grandma Evelyn.
His dinner was half finished.
Jordan and Brianna were still at the table.
Nobody was speaking.
I placed the box in front of my son.
His face changed immediately.
"Dad?"
"Where's Mom's ring?"
He stared at the empty box.
Then looked toward Denise.
His expression was enough.
My stomach dropped.
"Malik?"
He swallowed.
"She took it."
Denise stepped forward.
"That's not true."
Malik's voice shook.
"She said I wasn't responsible enough to keep it."
I turned toward my wife.
"Give it back."
"I don't have it."
"Denise."
"I said I don't have it!"
Grandma Evelyn slowly stood.
"Then explain why I saw you wearing it last Sunday."
The entire table fell silent.
I stared at my mother.
"What?"
She looked directly at Denise.
"At church. You had Angela's ring on your right hand."
Denise's face went pale.
My heart began racing.
I remembered that Sunday.
Denise had worn a beautiful royal-blue suit.
She'd shown me a new bracelet.
But I hadn't noticed the ring.
I'd been distracted by a work call.
I turned toward her.
"Did you wear my dead wife's ring?"
She looked away.
"Marcus, please."
"Answer me."
"I only tried it on."
Malik made a sound like he'd been punched.
I looked at him.
Tears were running down his face.
Denise continued.
"It was sitting in a box. Nobody was using it."
I stared at her.
"Nobody was using it?"
She shrugged.
"It's jewelry."
"No."
My voice cracked.
"It's the ring Angela wore when she promised to spend her life with me."
Denise's expression hardened.
"And she's gone!"
The words echoed through the room.
Malik flinched.
Grandma Evelyn gasped.
I felt a terrible stillness settle over me.
Denise looked at everyone.
"What? Are we going to pretend she isn't?"
I stepped toward her.
"Stop talking."
But she kept going.
"I'm tired of everything in this house revolving around a woman who's been dead for five years!"
Malik stood so suddenly that his chair fell backward.
"Don't talk about my mom!"
His voice broke.
Denise pointed at him.
"Sit down!"
I moved between them.
"Don't you dare."
Malik was crying openly now.
For months, he'd been holding everything inside.
Now it was pouring out.
"She threw away Mom's letters!"
My heart stopped.
"What?"
He wiped his face.
"She said they were making me weak."
I stared at Denise.
She shook her head.
"He doesn't need to keep reading those things."
I turned toward Malik.
"Which letters?"
"The ones Mom wrote when she was sick."
My chest tightened.
Angela had spent her final months undergoing treatment for an aggressive illness.
When she realized she might not survive, she began writing letters for Malik.
Birthdays.
Graduation.
His first job.
His wedding day.
She wanted him to have pieces of her love as he grew older.
I had stored the letters in a special wooden box.
Malik was supposed to open them at the right moments.
"Where are they?" I whispered.
He shook his head.
"Denise took the box."
I turned toward her.
"Tell me you didn't."
She looked away.
My mother covered her mouth.
I stepped closer.
"Denise, where are those letters?"
She hesitated.
Then spoke quietly.
"I got rid of some."
The room seemed to tilt.
I grabbed the edge of the table.
"Some?"
She folded her arms.
"He was constantly crying over them."
I stared at her.
"He's allowed to cry."
"Not forever!"
I felt tears burn my eyes.
For five years, I'd tried to help Malik survive the loss of his mother.
And while I was working to provide for our family, Denise had been destroying the memories that helped him feel close to her.
I looked at my son.
He was shaking.
I walked toward him.
"Malik, come here."
He stepped into my arms.
I held him tightly.
"I'm sorry."
He began sobbing.
"I'm sorry, Dad."
I pulled back.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because I didn't stop her."
My heart broke.
"Son, you were never supposed to fight this battle alone."
He buried his face against my shoulder.
I looked over his head at Denise.
"Where are the letters?"
She shook her head.
"Marcus—"
"Where?"
She hesitated.
Then glanced toward the kitchen.
My stomach tightened.
"What did you do?"
Her voice became barely audible.
"I put them in the trash."
Malik started crying harder.
I turned toward the kitchen.
Then I remembered something.
Trash collection had come that morning.
I looked back at Denise.
And suddenly understood why she'd insisted Malik clean the garage before dinner.
May you like
She hadn't been punishing him for unfinished chores.
She'd been keeping him busy while the garbage truck took away his mother's letters.
