“That matters.”
“Yes.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“Mom talked about you.”
“Apparently everyone did.”
“She was very grateful.”
“I was doing my job.”
“You were off duty when you donated blood.”
“I worked at the hospital.”
“You stayed after a fourteen-hour shift.”
I frowned.
“How do you know that?”
“She wrote everything down.”
Of course she did.
Benjamin opened a notebook.
Jane’s journal.
I did not want to read private entries.
He showed me only one.
Margaret Ellis refuses to let me thank her. Says if I need to thank someone, thank the next nurse who stays late.
I stared.
I had forgotten saying that.
Benjamin smiled.
“Mom took you literally.”
The original caregiver fund started small.
Then expanded.
Jane and her husband invested.
Other families contributed.
Eventually the hospital partnered with them.
“When Amy was born,” Benjamin continued, “Mom asked Rose whether you were still at St. Catherine’s.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Rose told her you’d left nursing to raise your daughter.”
I looked down.
“Mom thought that was unfair.”
“What was?”
“That you had helped hospital families but could not afford childcare to remain in the work you loved.”
That old ache surprised me.
I had loved nursing.
Leaving had been practical.
Necessary.
I never called it sacrifice because women of my generation were encouraged to call everything necessary.
“So she amended the trust.”
“To include Amy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted the education portion to continue through your family.”
“That seems excessive.”
Benjamin smiled.
“My mother specialized in excessive gratitude.”
I understood.
“Did Amy know?”
His expression changed.
“Yes.”
My heart tightened.
“When?”
“About ten years ago.”
“Who told her?”
“Rose.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
Rose had apparently been quietly arranging pieces of my life from a distance.
“Why didn’t Amy tell me?”
“That is where it gets complicated.”
Of course.
Benjamin removed another envelope.
My daughter’s handwriting.
MOM.
My hands began shaking immediately.
“No.”
Benjamin did not move the envelope toward me.
“You can read it later.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Rose.”
“When?”
“Before she died.”
I stared.
“Why did Rose have a letter from Amy?”
“Because Amy asked her to keep it until you found out about the trust.”
My chest hurt.
That sounded like my daughter.
She inherited my terrible habit of postponing difficult conversations.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t read it?”
