Chapter 3: The Secret Hidden in My Mother's Sketchbook
For several seconds, my father didn't move.
He stood beside the leather sofa, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the closed office door as if Vanessa might walk through it at any moment.
I could hear the faint murmur of guests outside.
Somewhere in the exhibition hall, a microphone squealed.
The ordinary sounds of the evening continued while everything I believed about my family began to collapse.
“Say that again,” my father demanded.
The investigator repeated the information.
The payments made after the accident had been deposited into an account connected to Vanessa.
Not once.
Not twice.
For years.
My father ended the call without saying goodbye.
I rose from the sofa.
“Daddy, what did he mean about Mom's medical records?””
He looked at me.
I had never seen that expression on his face before. He had been angry when he saw my damaged gown, devastated when he heard about the way Vanessa had treated me, and frightened when he read the threatening note.
Now he looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff.
“I don't know the whole truth,” he said.
“But the investigator said someone changed her records.””
“I heard him.””
“Was Mom sick?””
My father closed his eyes.
“Yes.””
“What was wrong with her?””
“She had a serious heart condition. The doctors believed she needed surgery, and we were trying to arrange treatment.””
I remembered my mother sitting beside me at the kitchen table, smiling through the pain in her chest while she helped me draw flowers in the margins of my schoolbooks.
I remembered the nights she couldn't climb the stairs without stopping to catch her breath.
I remembered Vanessa telling me that Mom had been weak and that there had been nothing anyone could do.
“Did she know she was going to die?”” I whispered.
My father crossed the room and held my shoulders.
“She knew she was ill. But she believed there was still a chance.””
“Then why did Vanessa say nothing could save her?””
His mouth tightened.
“Because I don't think Vanessa was telling you the truth.””
I stepped away from him.
The room tilted.
“No.””
“Nia—”
“No. You can't say that.””
“I wish I didn't have to.””
I shook my head, trying to force the words away.
Vanessa had been cruel to me, but she had been married to my father. She had lived with my mother. She had stood beside me at the funeral.
She had held my hand while I cried.
She had told me that Mom was at peace.
“You're wrong,” I whispered.
My father didn't argue.
He simply looked at me with the same sadness I had seen in his eyes when he first recognized my face.
And somehow, his silence frightened me more than any accusation could have.
The police escorted us through a private exit.
My father insisted that I leave the competition venue with him rather than return home with Vanessa. I didn't argue.
I wasn't sure I could look at her without demanding answers.
Outside, cold October air swept across the pavement. The rain had stopped, leaving the streetlights reflected in the wet road.
A black sedan waited beside the curb.
Before the driver could open the rear door, my father turned to me.
“Are you sure you're ready to leave?””
I looked at the ruined wing draped over my arm.
“No,” I admitted.
“But I don't want to go back there.””
He nodded.
“Then you won't.””
Those three words settled over me like a blanket.
Then you won't.
No argument.
No demand that I be grateful.
No reminder that I was living under someone else's roof.
My father simply opened the car door and waited for me to climb inside.
For the first time in years, I didn't have to ask permission to feel safe.
As the sedan pulled away, I watched the exhibition hall disappear behind us.
“Where are we going?”” I asked.
“To a hotel for tonight. Tomorrow, we'll make arrangements for you to stay somewhere comfortable while we sort everything out.””
I glanced at him.
“Do you have a home?””
May you like
A sad smile touched his mouth.
“I
