“That isn’t fair.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t fair. But it happened.”
“I was young.”
“So was I.”
She said nothing.
The parking lot around me was quiet. A few cars passed on the road. In the distance, a delivery truck rolled toward the office buildings, its tires whispering over the pavement.
“Where did you get the bank records?” Mom asked.
“The bank gave them to me.”
“Who helped you?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is if you’re planning to accuse me.”
“I’m not accusing you. The records show your name.”
“They show that I made a withdrawal.”
“Three withdrawals,” I said. “Over four months.”
“Because I needed the money.”
“For what?”
She did not answer.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Was it the car?” I asked. “The clothes? The laptops?”
“You have no idea what it costs to provide for a family.”
“You never provided for me.”
“That was years ago.”
“It was the same year you took the money.”
Her silence confirmed more than any confession could have.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, the framed copy of Grandma’s card sat on the passenger seat. The card was pale blue, decorated with tiny silver stars. Grandma had written the message in her careful, slanted handwriting.
My precious girl,
I know this amount is small, but small things become strong when we protect them. One day, you’ll understand that the money is only part of what I’m leaving you. I want you to know that I believed in your future before you were old enough to believe in it yourself.
Love always,
Grandma
I had read those words so many times that I knew them by heart.
“What did you put in the bag?” Mom asked.
“The card. The bank statement. A letter.”
“Why send the card?”
“Because I wanted you to remember who the money belonged to.”
“She was my mother.”
“And I was her granddaughter.”
“You’re trying to turn her against me even though she’s dead.”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to stop you from speaking for her.”
Another silence followed.
Then Mom said, “Come to my house tonight.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“Why?”
“I’ll explain everything.”
“You could explain it now.”
“Not over the phone.”
I thought of Mr. Ellis’s advice.
“Don’t meet her alone,” he had said. “Not because she’s dangerous. Because family conversations can become confusing when everyone is carrying old pain.”
