“It is.”
“How much money?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“No.”
I pointed at him.
“Do not do that lawyer thing where you make me wait for the number.”
Ellie giggled.
Thomas smiled.
“Fair.”
Then he named the amount.
I stopped hearing the kitchen clock.
“Excuse me?”
“Approximately six hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
I stared.
Ellie’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Is Grandma rich?”
“No,” I said immediately.
Thomas answered at the same time.
“Not exactly.”
Ellie looked between us.
“You adults make money confusing.”
That was true.
“What does restricted mean?” I asked.
“The fund can only be used for specific purposes.”
“What purposes?”
“Healthcare costs, housing repairs necessary for safety, education, and caregiving expenses for you or a dependent family member.”
My mind went to the roof.
My prescriptions.
Ellie’s shoes.
I pushed the thoughts away immediately.
“No.”
Thomas blinked.
“No?”
“I’m not taking six hundred thousand dollars because I gave a child blood forty-four years ago.”
“You wouldn’t be taking a reward.”
“That is exactly what it sounds like.”
“It’s a charitable trust.”
“I don’t care what the paperwork calls it.”
Thomas sat back.
Ellie was watching me.
I did not want her learning that doing the right thing came with a jackpot.
I looked at her.
“Sweetheart, finish breakfast.”
“But—”
“Ellie.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
Thomas seemed to understand what I was thinking.
“This is not connected to the ring.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Then why did the ring lead you here?”
“Because Rebecca recognized you.”
“That sounds connected.”
“Coincidentally connected.”
I gave him a look.
He smiled.
“Legally, the trust existed before Ellie was born.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“I know.”
He removed another document.
“This may help.”
It was dated 1984.
A trust agreement.
My name.
Rose’s signature as witness.
Jane Harrington’s.
A bank representative.
Everything appeared legitimate.
I felt dizzy.
“Why didn’t your mother tell me?”
“She tried.”
“Once?”
Thomas became quiet.
“No.”
He opened the envelope again.
Returned letters.
Three of them.
All addressed to me.
Different addresses.
All unopened.
All returned.
I stared.
“We moved a lot when George was younger.”
Thomas nodded.
“My mother assumed eventually you didn’t want contact.”
“She was probably right.”
I ran one finger over an envelope.
Life happens.
Friendships fade.
People become names from old Christmas cards.
“Why did she care this much?”
