Diane’s hand shook beside her plate. This was the woman who had raised Ryan, paid his tuition, and welcomed Chelsea into our home when her own family wouldn’t help with the wedding.
And now her son was demanding an apology over a message none of us understood.
I looked at Chelsea. Her sobs were loud, but her eyes were dry.
That was when I knew.
I reached down, opened the leather folder beside my chair, and placed it on the table.
Ryan frowned. “Dad, what are you doing?”
I slid the folder to the center.
“I was going to wait until after dinner,” I said. “But since Chelsea wants an apology, I brought one.”
Chelsea stopped crying.
Inside the folder were printed emails, hotel receipts, and still images from security footage.
