he died.”
I stared at him.
“Thomas never told me about another account.”
“He intended to.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Richard hesitated.
“Because he was sick.”
I closed my eyes.
Thomas had spent his final months trying to protect me from the financial realities of his illness.
Apparently, he had left one final protection behind.
Richard continued.
“The account contains a letter.”
“A letter?”
“Yes.”
He slid an envelope across the table.
My name was written on the front.
Evelyn.
Thomas’s handwriting.
My fingers began trembling.
I hadn’t seen that handwriting in years.
I didn’t open it immediately.
I simply stared.
Then I remembered something.
The night before Thomas died, he had held my hand and said:
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t let Benjamin confuse being your son with being entitled to everything you have.”
I had laughed.
“Thomas, he’s our son.”
“I know.”
“He’ll take care of me.”
Thomas
