“I didn’t mean for it to become this,” she said.
“What did you mean for it to become?”
She looked toward the closed door connecting their room to the children’s.
“I wanted a home where my parents could visit without feeling like guests. I wanted our children to grow up near the water. I wanted something that felt secure.”
“You could have wanted those things without deciding they belonged to you.”
“I know.”
The admission was quiet.
Patrick stared at her.
Megan looked down at her wedding ring.
“My mother said your mother would never let us struggle if she could help it.”
“That doesn’t mean she wanted to give us the house.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She raised her eyes.
“I do now.”
The next morning, they went to Lakeside Storage.
Unit 214 was at the end of a long row beneath a metal awning. Patrick entered the code Barbara had provided. The door rolled upward with a metallic groan.
Their belongings were stacked neatly inside.
Old photo albums. Christmas decorations. Two bicycles. A wooden crib that had belonged to my grandchildren when they were babies. Boxes of clothes. A kayak paddle. Patrick’s college records.
Everything had been labeled in my handwriting.
He found his childhood bedroom furniture near the back: the oak desk George had built for him, the blue quilt I had sewn, and the framed photograph of Patrick at age eight, standing beside his father with a fishing rod nearly as tall as he was.
Megan walked past him and stopped.
There was one more box.
It had been placed on top of the desk.
The label read:
PATRICK — PERSONAL
He frowned.
“I didn’t pack this.”
Megan came closer.
“Maybe your mother did.”
The box was sealed with brown tape. Patrick cut through it with the small pocketknife he kept on his key ring.
Inside were papers, a leather-bound notebook, and a manila envelope.
His father’s name was written on the envelope.
For Patrick, when you are old enough to understand what a home costs.
Patrick sat down hard in the desk chair.
George had died when Patrick was twenty-nine. The envelope had never been mentioned.
He looked at Megan.
“Why would she have this?”
“I don’t know.”
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Patrick turned the envelope over.
It had been opened once, then carefully resealed.
Inside was a letter, several pages long.
He unfolded the first page.
The date was written at the top.
