Jessi leaned slightly forward.
“You were twenty-nine. That’s three years older than I am now. You held one of your babies in your arms, told Dad he was a failure because he couldn’t buy you the life you wanted, and then you walked out.”
“I tried to come back! I called!”
For the first time during the meeting, I reached inside my jacket.
I placed an old spiral notebook on the table.
Chloe frowned.
“What is that?”
“Our old landline log.”
For fifteen years, I had recorded the calls that came into our home. School nurses, telemarketers, wrong numbers, doctors, teachers, and relatives were all written across those worn pages.
I tapped the cover.
“Your name isn’t in here once. Not on Christmas. Not on a single birthday. Not even when Fiona broke her arm and I spent thirty-six hours awake beside her in the emergency room.”
