“She made me help her.”

I snatched it. The first page wasn’t romantic. It was instructions.

Names.

Numbers.

Small descriptions beside each one.

“Anna likes old movies.”

“Beth hates seafood.”

“Lydia talks when she’s nervous, so give her time.”

Six names had check marks.

The seventh line had been violently crossed out.

Helen.

My eyes lifted.

“You were on it.”

“At first.”

“Why?”

Helen looked toward the empty chair where Dad always sat. “Because Maggie thought I understood him.”

I hadn’t heard anyone outside our family call Mom Maggie in years.

It made my skin prickle.

“And then she changed her mind.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Helen didn’t answer.

I stood.

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Rachel.”

I was already dialing. He answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“I’m at the restaurant.”

Silence.

I looked at Helen.

Dad said, “Is she there?”

That hurt more than I expected.

“You knew she’d be here?”

“No.”

“But how did you know who I meant?”

Another silence.

“Dad…”

“Rachel, I can explain. Please don’t open the envelope.”

I looked down at my name.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?”

“Because it isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taped it underneath a table.”

He arrived twenty minutes later.

He looked older when he saw the photograph in my hands.

“Mom did this?”

Dad nodded. “At home. I brought it here after she died.”

He sat in his usual chair. Helen moved to leave.

I blocked her. “No. If Mom erased you from the photograph, you’re staying.”

Dad flinched.

I set the list between them. “Start talking.”

Dad looked at Helen. Helen said, “You tell her.”

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“Your mother knew I wouldn’t try to date again.”

“Apparently she was wrong.”

“No. She was right.”

He tapped the list. “For five years, I never opened it.”

“Why start?”

“Because of you.”

I stared at him.

“On your 39th birthday, you told me you wanted me to have a life.”

I remembered.

Dad nodded. “That night I opened the box.”

“What box?”

“The blue one your mother left in my closet.”

Helen looked away.

Dad explained that inside the box were seven sealed envelopes.

Six for the women Mom had chosen.

One for Dad.

Mom knew he’d feel guilty dating again.

So she chose women she believed would accept that part of Dad would always love her.

My throat tightened despite myself. “That’s why they leave?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Dad looked at Helen.

“When the check comes, I give them Mom’s letter. Then I show them mine.”

“What letter?”

“The one Maggie wrote to me.”

I pushed the list toward him. “You mean this?”

“No.”

Dad reached into his jacket and removed a folded white page.

The creases were nearly worn through.

He handed it to me.

Most of it was what I expected.

Mom telling Dad she loved him.

Mom telling him not to spend the rest of his life alone.

Then I reached the final paragraph.

“If Helen ever comes back into your life, promise me she will remain your friend and nothing more. Anyone else, Tom. Just not her.”

I read it twice.

Then I looked at Helen. “You were in love with him.”

“No.”

Dad said, “Rachel.”

“Was she?”

“No.”

“Was he in love with you?”

Helen answered this time.

“Not while your mother was alive.”

The room seemed to shrink.

I stared at Dad. He didn’t deny it.

Helen’s voice softened.

“Your mother got sick. Your father was exhausted. You were working in another state. I started helping.”

I remembered trays of food appearing in Mom’s refrigerator, appointments Dad somehow managed, fresh sheets when Mom was too weak to climb the stairs.

I’d thought Dad had done everything.

“Helen did those things?”

He nodded.

“And Mom knew?”

“Yes.”

Helen swallowed. “For a while, she was grateful.”

“For a while?”

Dad looked at the photograph.

“Then Maggie started watching us.”

Nothing had happened.

No affair.

No kiss.

No secret meetings.

But Mom saw something neither of them had admitted.

Helen could make Dad laugh during the worst year of his life.

Dad could sit silently beside Helen without pretending to be strong.

Mom began to fear the life that might continue after hers ended.

“So she crossed you off,” I said. “And scratched your face out.”

Helen nodded.

“Yes.”

“But why did you disappear?”

Helen’s eyes filled.

“Because she asked me to.”

I stared at her. “Mom told you to leave?”

“Three weeks before she died.”

Dad’s head snapped toward her.

“What?”

Helen went pale.

“You didn’t know?”

Dad stood so quickly his chair struck the wall. “Helen.”

“She told me you knew.”

“No.”

For the first time, Helen looked really frightened.

Dad said, “What exactly did she say?”

Helen’s voice shook.

“She said you wanted your final weeks together without me around. She said you felt guilty asking me to leave yourself.”