The edges were worn soft—handled often, touched again and again.
Suddenly I understood.
For five years, Ryan had stood before this portrait. I'd thought he was paying his respects. Begging my father's forgiveness.
Now I knew the truth.
He was never looking at my father.
He was looking at her. At that radiant smile. At stolen moments that should never have existed.
I turned the photo over. A single line in familiar handwriting:
Ryan & Sandra. Forever.
His handwriting.
How pathetic I must have looked. A fool clinging to a marriage my father had paid for with his life.
And Ryan?
He played the devoted husband to perfection—while hiding a lover's photo behind my dead father's face.
My stomach heaved. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was retching, gripping the sink until my knuckles went white.
I couldn't wait another second. I needed to sever this completely.
The next morning, I met my lawyer at a café.
While I waited, a server approached with a steaming cup of coffee—then dumped it directly over my head.
"Oh no, I'm so sorry." The voice dripped with mock sweetness. "Clumsy me."
I looked up into Sandra's smirking face.