long pause.
“He told me you didn’t want me living there,” she whispered. “Dad barely talked about you. I thought that was because you told him not to.”
“He told me you couldn’t stand having me in the house.”
Then Chloe started crying.
And so did I.
“I loved Sunday lasagna,” she said through tears. “I loved when you laughed at my stupid jokes.”
“I still have the cookbook I bought you.”
“What?”
“All your gifts. Every year. I kept them.”
She cried harder.
“I wrote to you every year.”
