“Can I know?”
“When I understand it better.”
She considered this.
“Tomorrow?”
“Probably not.”
“Tuesday?”
I smiled.
“We’ll see.”
She returned to coloring.
Children can sometimes tolerate uncertainty better than adults if we do not teach them to fear it.
I, meanwhile, barely slept.
At two in the morning, I sat at the kitchen table with Rose’s letter, the trust documents, and a photograph of Amy on her wedding day.
My daughter had been thirty-six when she died.
Too young.
Every age below your own becomes too young eventually.
Amy had known about the fund.
Apparently.
Maybe.
The amendment named her.
That did not necessarily mean she knew.
But Thomas had sounded as though there was more.
There was always more.
The next morning, I called him.
“When can Benjamin meet?”
“Wednesday.”
“Here?”
“He offered.”
“No black SUV.”
Thomas laughed.
“I’ll tell him.”
“And no photographers.”
“There were never photographers.”
“I’m establishing policy.”
“Understood.”
Wednesday arrived with rain.
Of course.
Important family revelations seem to prefer bad weather.
Benjamin Harrington came alone.
He was fifty-one.
Tall.
Thin.
Gray at the temples.
He wore an ordinary navy raincoat and carried a battered leather satchel.
Nothing about him suggested the six-year-old boy I remembered.
Until he smiled.
Then I saw it.
A gap between his front teeth.
Smaller now.
But there.
My throat tightened.
“Benjamin.”
He stopped on the porch.
“You remember me?”
“I remember a boy who threw applesauce at a resident.”
His face broke into a grin.
“That was me.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
I hated how often that happened lately.
Benjamin hugged me only after asking.
Another point in his favor.
Ellie stood beside me.
“Are you the kid Grandma saved?”
I closed my eyes.
“Ellie.”
Benjamin laughed.
“I’m the kid your grandma helped.”
“Did you throw applesauce?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The doctor was annoying.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Fair.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
Benjamin was still laughing when we sat down.
He opened the satchel.
Inside were folders.
More letters.
I gave him a warning look.
“I know,” he said. “Too many letters.”
“Exactly.”
“Unfortunately, people before email were very productive.”
Fair.
He placed one photograph on the table.
His mother, Jane.
I remembered her instantly.
Tired eyes.
Red cardigan.
Hands always wrapped around coffee.
“She died twelve years ago,” Benjamin said.
“I’m sorry.”
“She had a good life.”
He smiled.
“Longer than anyone expected when I was sick.”
