Chapter 2: The Letter My Father Left Behind
“Give me the envelope, Evelyn.””
My mother's voice was no longer angry.
It was frightened.
That frightened me more than anything else she had done.
Grandma tucked the envelope inside her handbag and snapped the clasp shut.
“No.””
“It's private family correspondence.””
“It's addressed to Maya.””
“You don't know what's in it.””
“Neither do you, apparently, if you're so desperate to keep her from reading it.””
My mother looked toward Marcus.
He stepped between us, positioning himself close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Maya, listen to me,” he said.
“Your grandmother is upset. This is turning into something much bigger than it needs to be.””
“Then explain the letter.””
“It's an old letter.””
“From my father.””
“Exactly. Old memories can be painful.””
I stared at him.
“Why would reading a letter from my dead father be painful for you?””
His expression tightened.
Behind him, my mother began gathering the scattered plates from the coffee table with unnecessary force.
“Because your father was sick when he wrote things,” she said.
“He wasn't always thinking clearly.””
Grandma's eyes narrowed.
“You told me he was perfectly clear when he signed the final documents.””
“Mom, stop.””
“You told me he understood every word.””
“Stop!””
The plates rattled in my mother's hands.
One slipped and shattered against the floor.
Everyone flinched except Grandma.
She looked at the broken pieces, then back at her daughter.
“Careful, Claire. You might hurt yourself cleaning up the mess you've made.””
My mother dropped the remaining plates onto the table.
“I will not stand here and be insulted in my own home!””
Grandma didn't raise her voice.
“Then stop pretending it's yours.””
Aunt Patricia hurried forward.
“Okay. Everyone needs to calm down.””
“No,” I said.
My voice surprised even me.
Everyone turned.
I looked at my mother.
“I'm eighteen today. You handed me an eviction notice in front of my entire family. Grandma says I own this house, and now you're trying to stop me from reading a letter from Dad.””
I took a breath.
“I'm done being told to calm down while everyone else decides my life.””
For a moment, my mother looked almost as if she might slap me.
Then she glanced at the other people watching her and forced a smile.
“Fine. Read it. I don't care.””
Grandma studied her.
“Are you sure?””
“Absolutely.””
“Then you won't mind telling Maya why you said it had been destroyed.””
My mother's smile vanished.
Marcus seized the opportunity.
“Evelyn, enough. This conversation is over.””
He took my mother's arm.
“We're leaving.””
“Leaving where?”” Grandma asked.
“This is such a lovely family celebration. Surely we can finish it.””
Marcus gave her a look of pure hatred.
Then he turned to me.
“Maya, I strongly suggest you think carefully about what you do next. You're young. You don't understand how complicated these things can become.””
I met his eyes.
“Is that a threat?””
“It's advice.””
“Then I'll remember it as advice.””
He released a short, bitter laugh.
“Fine.””
He grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed toward the hallway.
My mother followed him, but stopped at the doorway.
She looked back at the cake, the balloons, and the flowers I had bought her.
For one brief second, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she pointed at the eviction notice.
“Thirty days, Maya. I meant what I said.””
Grandma rose.
“And I meant what I said about the deed.””
My mother disappeared into the hallway.
A moment later, the front door slammed.
The silence afterward was almost unbearable.
My aunt Patricia cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose the party is over.””
Nobody disagreed.
Within ten minutes, the living room had emptied. My relatives offered awkward hugs and murmured that they would call me soon.
None of them looked me in the eye.
When the last car disappeared down the street, Grandma locked the front door and turned off the porch light.
Then she came back to the living room, sat beside me, and took both my hands.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.””
I stared at her.
“For what?””
“For allowing you to believe you were alone in this.””
My throat tightened.
“You knew I owned the house?””
“I knew the arrangement existed. I didn't know your mother had decided to throw you out today.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
Grandma looked down at our joined hands.
“Your father asked me to wait until you turned eighteen. He wanted you to have the truth when you were old enough to understand what it meant.””
“What truth?””
She hesitated.
Then she opened her handbag and took out the envelope.
“I think you should read this.””
My fingers trembled as I accepted it.
The paper was yellowed around the edges. My father's handwriting was unmistakable, slightly slanted, with the capital M in my name drawn like a little mountain.
I ran my thumb over the ink.
For six years, I had kept one photograph of him beside my bed. He was holding me in a swimming pool, laughing as I clung to his shoulders.
Sometimes, when I was little, I would wake from a dream and reach for the empty space beside me.
My mother always told me that grief was selfish.
“Your father wouldn't want you crying all the time,” she would say.
“You need to move on.””
So I learned to cry quietly.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a folded letter and a smaller sheet of paper covered in numbers.
I unfolded the letter first.
My dearest Maya,
If you are reading this, then you have turned eighteen, and I am not there to tell you how proud I am of you.
I wish more than anything that I could be there.
My vision blurred.
Grandma placed a box of tissues beside me but didn't interrupt.
I kept reading.
There are things your mother and I have disagreed about. Some of those things are ordinary. Every marriage has disagreements.
But there is one thing I need you to understand.
You are not responsible for the happiness, comfort, or financial security of the adults around you.
I stopped.
I read the sentence again.
Then I pressed the paper against my chest.
For years, I had believed that if I worked harder, complained less, and gave my mother more money, perhaps she would finally look at me the way she used to before Dad died.
My father had somehow understood the burden I had spent years carrying.
The letter continued.
I have arranged for you to have a safe place to live. Evelyn knows the details. No matter what happens between the adults, you must never believe that you have to earn your right to be loved.
A tear dropped onto the page.
I wiped it away quickly.
There are also financial matters that you deserve to know about. I have left instructions with the appropriate people. When you turn eighteen, you should ask Evelyn to take you to see Mr. Bennett at Bennett and Cole.
Do not sign anything your mother or Marcus gives you without having it reviewed independently.
My hands went cold.
If they tell you I left nothing, do not believe them.
I looked up.
Grandma was watching me carefully.
“Who is Mr. Bennett?””
“Your father's attorney.””
“Why would Dad think Mom might tell me he left nothing?””
Grandma folded her hands.
“That is something we need to investigate.””
I looked back at the letter.
The final paragraph was written in darker ink, as though my father had pressed the pen harder against the paper.
There is one more thing, Maya.
If your mother has asked you for money from your paycheck, do not assume that money was needed for household expenses.
Ask her what happened to the account.
I stopped breathing.
“What account?””
Grandma shook her head.
“I don't know.””
I searched the letter for another sentence, another clue, anything that might explain what my father meant.
But there was nothing.
Only his signature.
Dad.
Beneath the letter lay the smaller sheet of paper.
It contained a bank name, an account reference, and a handwritten note.
*Ask for the original beneficiary records.*
I stared at it.
“Grandma, what does this mean?””
She leaned forward, studying the page.
“I think your father wanted us to find out whether someone changed the instructions he left behind.””
“Someone like Mom?””
“I won't accuse anyone without evidence.””
“But she knew about the letter.””
“Yes.””
“And she tried to take it.””
Grandma's jaw tightened.
“Yes.””
I stood and began pacing between the sofa and the window.
My birthday cake sat untouched. The candles had melted into crooked pools of wax.
“I gave her money every month,” I whispered.
“She said we were struggling.””
Grandma said nothing.
“She told me Marcus had lost his job. She said the mortgage was overdue. She said she was afraid we might lose the house.””
I turned toward her.
“But if she doesn't own it, why did she tell me that?””
Grandma took a slow breath.
“I don't know, sweetheart. But I intend to find out.””
I picked up the smaller sheet again.
There was a telephone number written beneath the account reference.
I reached for my phone.
“Should I call it?””
“Not tonight. It's late, and we need to approach this carefully.””
I nodded, although every part of me wanted answers immediately.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from my mother appeared on the screen.
*You have no idea what your grandmother has done to this family. Stay away from that letter.*
Another message arrived before I could respond.
*If you take this any further, don't expect me to forgive you.*
I stared at the screen.
Grandma read the messages over my shoulder.
Then she looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Fear.
“Maya,” she whispered, “did your mother ever ask you to sign anything about your father's estate?””
I thought about the stack of paperwork she had brought into my bedroom the previous spring.
She had told me it was routine.
She had said I was helping her keep the family organized.
“I don't know,” I said slowly.
“She gave me some papers to sign when I turned seventeen. She said they were school and insurance documents.””
Grandma stood so abruptly that her handbag fell to the floor.
“What did you sign?””
“I don't remember.””
“Did she give you copies?””
“No.””
Grandma closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she didn't speak.
Then she picked up her phone.
“I'm calling Robert Bennett.””
“Now?””
“Now.””
She dialed the number from memory and paced toward the kitchen.
When the call connected, her voice changed.
“Robert, it's Evelyn Brooks. I'm sorry to call so late, but something has happened.””
She listened.
“Yes. Maya has turned eighteen.””
Another pause.
“No, she hasn't been told everything.””
I moved closer to the doorway.
Grandma's voice dropped.
“Her mother attempted to evict her from the house today. And we found the letter Daniel left for her.””
Silence.
Then Grandma stopped pacing.
“What do you mean, the account was closed?””
My heart began pounding.
She listened for several seconds.
Then she whispered four words.
“Who received the money?””
Whatever the attorney said next made her grip the kitchen counter.
Finally, she turned toward me.
Her face had gone completely white.
“Maya,” she said, ending the call, “your father left you considerably more than a house.””
May you like
She swallowed.
“And according to his attorney, someone withdrew nearly eight hundred thousand dollars from your trust fund.””
