Chapter 2: The Envelope My Mother Left Behind
I knew my mother's handwriting.
Even after three years, I could recognize it from across a room.
Evelyn Brooks had written birthday cards with the same careful slant, underlining the names of her grandchildren twice and adding little hearts beside their ages. She had been a school counselor for thirty years, the sort of woman who noticed when a child stopped talking at the dinner table.
She had also been the first person to tell me she was worried about Tasha.
I had accused her of being unfair.
I had told her that grief had made me defensive, that she didn't understand how hard it was to raise a child alone while running a company.
We had argued six months before she died.
I never got the chance to apologize properly.
Now her handwriting was sitting in my hands.
Tasha moved toward me.
"Give me that.""
I looked up.
"Why?""
"Because it's private.""
"It's addressed to me.""
"Jordan shouldn't have been keeping things from me!""
Jordan took a step backward.
I placed the envelope inside my jacket.
"He's not the one I'm worried about right now.""
Tasha's face tightened.
"You cannot possibly be taking this seriously.""
"I haven't read it yet.""
"Then why are you acting like I've committed a crime?""
I studied her.
She was no longer trying to look concerned. Her eyes were fixed on the pocket where I had put the envelope.
For the first time, I wondered whether my mother had seen something I had refused to see.
I turned to Jordan.
"Where did you get this?""
"Grandma gave it to me before she went to the hospital.""
"When?""
He rubbed his palms against his trousers.
"Last summer.""
I stared at him.
"Last summer?""
Jordan nodded.
"She said I should keep it somewhere safe. She told me not to open it unless I thought Isaiah wasn't safe.""
Tasha let out an incredulous laugh.
"So your grandmother gave you a secret letter about me, and you hid it for months? Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?""
Jordan's eyes filled with tears.
"She said you might get mad.""
"Of course I'd get mad! Your grandmother was filling your head with lies!""
"Stop," I said.
Tasha turned toward me.
"Excuse me?""
"Don't speak to him like that.""
"He is my son!""
"And he's a child.""
"Exactly! A child who should not be dragged into your ridiculous investigation.""
Jordan looked at me.
"Grandma said you might not believe her.""
The words cut through the room.
I sat on the sofa and opened the envelope.
Inside were three handwritten pages and a small photograph.
The photograph showed my mother sitting at our kitchen table. Isaiah was beside her, coloring a picture of a house. Tasha stood in the background, holding a garbage bag.
At first, I didn't understand what I was seeing.
Then I noticed Isaiah's face.
He was crying.
My mother had written the date on the back.
March 14.
I remembered that day. Tasha had told me Isaiah was upset because he had lost a toy. I had called him during lunch, and he had sounded perfectly fine.
I unfolded the first page.
Malcolm, if you are reading this, I hope I am wrong about what I have seen. I hope you have discovered a simple explanation that I could not find.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
But I have watched Isaiah become quieter every time Tasha enters a room. I have watched him ask permission to eat food in his own kitchen. Last week, he apologized to me because he thought he had taken too much milk.
I stopped reading.
Tasha stood near the fireplace, her arms crossed.
"Your mother was old and confused.""
I looked at her.
"She wasn't confused when she wrote this.""
"She hated me.""
"Why?""
"Because she thought I was replacing your first wife.""
I shook my head.
"My mother wanted me to be happy.""
"She wanted control over your life. She criticized everything I did.""
I returned to the letter.
Two weeks ago, I found Isaiah sitting on the laundry-room floor. He had spilled a little juice on his shirt. Tasha told him he would have to wear the stain to school because she was tired of washing clothes for a child who couldn't take care of himself.
My stomach turned.
I looked at the photograph again.
The garbage bag in Tasha's hand was full of children's clothes.
"What's in the bag?"" I asked.
She glanced at the photograph.
"Old clothes.""
"Whose?""
"Isaiah's, obviously.""
"Why were you throwing them away?""
"They were damaged.""
"Some of them still had tags.""
"How would you know? You weren't there.""
The answer came too quickly.
I looked at the second page.
I bought Isaiah three new shirts and a winter coat. Tasha told me she would return them because she did not want him becoming spoiled. I later discovered that the clothes had never reached him.
I lifted my eyes.
"Did you return clothes my mother bought for Isaiah?""
Tasha's lips pressed together.
"She was interfering.""
"Did you return them?""
"I don't remember.""
"You don't remember receiving three shirts and a winter coat?""
"I have a lot to manage, Malcolm!""
I stood.
"Answer the question.""
She grabbed her handbag.
"I am not going to be treated like a criminal in my own house.""
"Then stop giving me reasons to ask questions.""
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she looked toward Jordan.
"This is your fault.""
Jordan flinched.
"You brought that letter downstairs. You made your father suspicious. Do you understand what you've done?""
I stepped between them.
"No. Don't put this on him.""
Tasha's voice sharpened.
"You're choosing them over me.""
"I'm choosing to find out what happened.""
"After everything I've done for this family?""
I looked around the living room.
The polished floors. The enormous windows. The expensive furniture. The staircase we had decorated together when we first moved in.
I had worked sixty-hour weeks to afford this house. I had believed the children would grow up with room to play, a pool to swim in, and a mother who would love them when I was away.
But a house could be beautiful and still become a place where a child learned to be afraid.
I folded the letter carefully.
"Where is Ava?""
Tasha blinked.
"Upstairs.""
"With whom?""
"She's in her room.""
"Alone?""
"Malcolm, she is eight years old. She doesn't need an escort to walk around her own house.""
I turned toward the stairs.
"Jordan, stay here with me.""
Tasha stepped forward.
"Absolutely not. He is coming with me.""
Jordan moved behind my shoulder.
I had never seen him do that before.
Not once.
I looked at Tasha.
"Why is he afraid to stay near you?""
Her expression became cold.
"He isn't afraid of me.""
Jordan whispered, "I am.""
The room went silent.
Tasha stared at him.
"What did you say?""
Jordan was shaking now, but he forced the words out.
"I'm scared when you get mad.""
She slapped her palm against the fireplace mantel.
"After everything I sacrifice for you?""
Jordan's eyes overflowed.
"You tell me I'm ungrateful when I share things with Isaiah.""
"Because he doesn't appreciate anything!""
"He does!""
"Jordan!""
"He always says thank you!""
Tasha's face flushed.
"You have no idea what you're talking about.""
I held up my hand.
"Enough.""
She turned toward me with a look I had never seen before.
"You want the truth? Fine. Your son has made this house miserable since the day I married you.
Everything is always about Isaiah. His feelings, his clothes, his problems. What about my children?""
I stared at her.
"Your children have closets full of new clothes.""
"That's not the point!""
"Then tell me what the point is.""
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
For a moment, she looked almost frightened.
Then she reached for her handbag again.
"I need to get out of this house before I say something I'll regret.""
I moved aside.
"Go ahead.""
She froze.
"You don't mean that.""
"I mean that I want you to leave this room. I'm staying with the children.""
"This is my home!""
"It's also theirs.""
She snatched her keys off the table and stormed toward the front door. Before leaving, she turned back.
"You'll come crawling back when you realize what you've done.""
The door slammed.
Jordan began crying.
I pulled him into my arms.
"I'm sorry, buddy.""
He shook his head.
"Grandma told me to be brave.""
"You were brave.""
"She said you loved Isaiah more than anybody.""
I closed my eyes.
"I love all three of you.""
He looked up at me.
"Even if we aren't yours?""
The question nearly stopped my heart.
I cupped his face.
"Jordan, listen carefully. You don't have to share my blood to be my son. You never did.""
He broke down against me.
I held him until his sobs quieted.
Then I found Ava in her bedroom, sitting on the floor beside a dollhouse. She had heard the argument through the door. When I knelt beside her, she immediately asked whether I was going to send her away.
"Why would I do that, sweetheart?""
"Mom said you might.""
I felt something inside me crack.
"No one is sending you away.""
She studied my face.
"Will Isaiah have to go, then?""
"No.""
"Will Mom?""
I hesitated.
"I don't know what's going to happen yet.""
Ava picked up a tiny plastic chair and placed it inside the dollhouse.
"Mom says Isaiah makes everyone unhappy.""
I sat beside her.
"Do you think that's true?""
She shook her head.
"Isaiah gives me his cookies when I don't like my lunch.""
She pushed the tiny chair toward a doll.
"He lets me use his crayons, too. Even the good ones.""
I hugged her.
For the next hour, I called a pediatrician, arranged for Isaiah to be checked after his fall, and contacted an attorney I trusted. I didn't know what I would do about my marriage, but I knew I couldn't pretend nothing had happened.
Then I returned to the kitchen to finish reading my mother's letter.
The final paragraph was written in darker ink, as if she'd pressed the pen harder against the paper.
*Malcolm, there is something else you need to know. I found a bank statement among the household papers while helping you organize your accounts. Someone has been withdrawing money from the family trust established for Isaiah.
I asked Tasha about it. She told me it was for household expenses.*
I read the paragraph twice.
Isaiah's trust had been created by my late wife's parents. The money was intended for his education and future needs. I had reviewed the account every few months, but Tasha had gradually taken over the household bookkeeping after we married.
I pulled out my phone and called my accountant.
"Peter, I need the latest statements for Isaiah's trust.""
There was a pause.
"Malcolm, is everything all right?""
"Not yet. Can you send them tonight?""
"I can send the records I have access to. But the trust account isn't managed through our office.""
"Who manages it?""
Another pause.
"Your wife requested that the statements be sent directly to her last year. She said you had authorized the change.""
My grip tightened around the phone.
"I never authorized that.""
Peter's voice became cautious.
"Then you should contact the trustee immediately.""
I thanked him and ended the call.
The kitchen clock ticked above the refrigerator.
Upstairs, I heard Isaiah laughing softly at something Jordan had said. It was the first happy sound I'd heard from him all afternoon.
I stared at the photograph of my mother.
She had tried to warn me.
I had dismissed her concerns as the resentment of an older woman who didn't like her son's new wife.
Now I had a frightened child, a letter, and money missing from an account that was supposed to secure his future.
My phone buzzed.
An email had arrived from Peter.
The subject line read: *ISAIAH BROOKS TRUST — UNAUTHORIZED DISTRIBUTIONS.*
I opened it.
There were fourteen transfers over eleven months.
The total was $86,400.
May you like
And the recipient account belonged to a company I had never heard of.
*Tasha Brooks Consulting LLC.*
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