“Did he say no?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought the house was still going to be yours?”
“I thought he would change his mind.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
He read the next paragraph.
> Your mother will probably tell you that the house is yours someday because that is easier than telling you she does not know what she will need ten, fifteen, or twenty years from now. Please do not turn her kindness into a contract.
A sharp breath escaped Megan.
“Did she know about this letter?”
“I don’t know.”
At the bottom of the page, George had written:
> I have asked her to keep this letter. If you ever begin making plans for the house, she should give it to you.
Patrick stared at that sentence.
His father had not left the letter to be found by accident.
His mother had kept it for seventeen years.
“She had this the whole time,” Megan said.
Patrick nodded.
“Why didn’t she show me?”
“Maybe she thought you were too young.”
“I was twenty-nine.”
“You were scared.”
“So were we.”
Megan’s words held no accusation. That made them harder to hear.
Patrick turned the page.
The next section was written several weeks later.
> I spoke with your mother again. She says you believe I promised you the property. I did not. I promised you that, if we were able, we would help you become independent. Those are different promises, and I am sorry that I allowed you to confuse them.
Patrick’s vision blurred.
He lowered the letter.
“He knew I believed it.”
Megan watched him carefully.
