For years, Grace had believed Arthur Whitmore had forgotten our family.
Arthur had believed his wife knew almost nothing about my father beyond the company dispute.
Both of them had been wrong.
And folded inside Eleanor’s letter was a second sealed envelope.
On that one, in my mother’s handwriting, were four words:
For Grace, when ready.
“So maybe you’re ready.”
Grace ran her thumb over the envelope.
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
Arthur stood.
“You don’t need to open it here.”
Grace looked at him.
For once, he wasn’t asking questions.
He wasn’t insisting.
He simply stepped away.
That mattered.
Grace folded Eleanor’s letter and Mom’s envelope together.
“I want to read Mrs. Whitmore’s letter first.”
We went into Arthur’s kitchen.
Mrs. Alvarez made tea for the adults and hot chocolate for Annie and me.
Nobody touched any of it.
