When she reached the top, her eyes fell on the open folder.
For once, there was no performance in her face. No anger prepared for an audience. Only the exhausted knowledge that the final hidden room had been opened.
“You wrote on the envelope,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Your grandmother did.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I would take it.”
My mother sat on the edge of an old trunk.
“I didn’t plan to take it,” she said. “Not at first.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Your father’s business was failing. We had creditors calling. The house needed repairs. I thought we would replace the money within a few months.”
“You withdrew more than thirty thousand.”
“I kept records.”
“Records don’t make it yours.”
“No.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the account?”
“Because your grandmother made me feel as if I had no right to be your mother.”
I frowned.
“She told me you were different from us. That you had a chance to leave this town and become someone better. I was proud of you, but I was also afraid you would leave and never look back.”
“So you made sure I couldn’t trust you.”
“I thought if you needed us, you would stay connected.”
“That isn’t connection.”
“I know.”
She looked at the folder.
“When the first letter came, I opened it.”
My pulse quickened.
“Which letter?”
“The one with the note.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“She told you to ask about the money.”
“And then?”
“I panicked.”
“So you refused my letters.”
“I returned some.”
“All of them?”
“Not all.”
My father looked at her.
“Diane.”
“I kept a few.”
“Why?”
She met my eyes.
“Because they were the only proof that you still thought about us.”
The words should have softened me.
Instead, they made me ache.
“You kept them?”
