Chapter 6 - The Box My Mother Tried to Hide
Dad drove to Atlanta the next morning.
I waited in Rebecca's conference room because neither of us wanted our first meeting in fifteen years to happen in a restaurant surrounded by strangers.
At 10:17, the door opened.
He looked older.
Of course he did.
So did I.
Thomas Mercer had once been the tallest man in every childhood room I remembered. Now his shoulders curved slightly forward. His hair had gone almost entirely silver.
But his eyes were the same.
Gray-blue.
Mine.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he said:
"Nat."
That was what he'd called me when I was little.
I crossed the room.
He hugged me.
And fifteen years disappeared for approximately five seconds.
Then reality returned.
I stepped away.
"Why didn't you call?"
Pain moved across his face.
"I did."
"Why didn't you come?"
"I tried."
"Not hard enough."
He accepted that.
No excuses.
"I know."
That answer mattered.
We sat.
Rebecca remained.
Dad had brought a box.
Inside were copies of letters.
Returned envelopes.
Legal documents.
Bank records.
Photographs.
"My mother told me you stopped trying."
"Your mother told me you didn't want contact."
I closed my eyes.
Perfect.
Two lies moving in opposite directions.
"Why did you believe her?"
"Because you were sixteen when things got bad."
"I was sixteen, not six."
"I know that now."
He looked down.
"Back then, I thought leaving you out of the fight was protecting you."
Another adult deciding I could be protected by removing my choices.
I was beginning to hate that concept.
Dad explained the original dispute.
He and Mom had invested in property.
Small houses.
A duplex.
Land.
Nothing glamorous.
But over years, values increased.
Then Dad discovered loans he hadn't authorized.
Mom had been helping Eric.
Even as a teenager.
Eric damaged a car.
Mom covered it.
Eric got involved with older kids and owed money.
Mom covered it.
Then she began borrowing against family assets.
When Dad discovered it, the marriage exploded.
"Why didn't you fight?"
"I did."
He showed me documents.
He had.
Lawyers.
Mediation.
Court filings.
But then something changed.
"What?"
Dad looked at me.
"Your mother threatened to make you choose."
My chest tightened.
"Between you?"
He nodded.
"And you left?"
"I thought if I removed myself, eventually things would calm down."
"They didn't."
"No."
He looked at the table.
"I made the worst decision of my life."
That was the first apology I believed.
Not because it erased anything.
Because he didn't try to make it noble.
He had failed.
He knew it.
"What about the letters?"
"I sent them."
"Eric had them."
Dad's face changed.
"What?"
I told him about Kayla.
His jaw tightened.
Then he opened the box.
At the bottom was a photograph.
Me.
Age eight.
Missing front tooth.
Sitting on his shoulders at Stone Mountain.
"I kept everything."
My eyes burned.
I hated that I wanted to forgive him.
Forgiveness felt too easy.
But hatred felt exhausting.
So I chose neither.
Not yet.
Rebecca returned us to the practical issue.
"Thomas, did you ever authorize Mercer Family Holdings?"
"No."
"Did Diane?"
"She created it."
"Did you transfer property into it?"
"Not voluntarily."
He showed us another document.
A signature.
His.
Except it wasn't.
I stared.
"Eric?"
Dad shook his head.
"He was fifteen."
Mom.
Maybe.
Maybe someone else.
Rebecca didn't speculate.
Good lawyers don't.
She collected the evidence.
Then my phone rang.
Mom.
I answered.
"Natalie, I need to see you."
"Why?"
"There's something you need."
"What?"
"A box."
I looked at Dad's box.
"What box?"
"The one I should have given you years ago."
We arranged to meet.
Not at her house.
Rebecca's office.
Mom arrived at four carrying a sealed plastic container.
When she saw Dad, she stopped.
Everything drained from her face.
"Tom."
"Diane."
Fifteen years compressed into two names.
Mom looked at me.
"You called him."
"Yes."
Her eyes filled.
"I wanted to explain first."
"You've had fifteen years."
She flinched.
Then placed the box on the table.
Inside were letters.
More letters.
Every birthday.
Every Christmas.
Every graduation.
Dad's handwriting.
My name.
Unopened.
I stared at Mom.
"You kept these?"
She cried.
"I was angry."
"For fifteen years?"
"I didn't know how to undo it."
"You open a drawer."
My voice cracked for the first time.
"You hand them to me."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
I picked up one envelope.
My college graduation.
Dad had written across the back:
I don't know if you'll read this, but I am proud of you.
My hands shook.
Mom whispered:
"I'm sorry."
I looked at her.
"For which part?"
She couldn't answer.
Then Dad noticed something inside the box.
A blue folder.
His face changed.
"Diane."
Mom immediately reached for it.
Rebecca stopped her.
"Don't."
Dad stared.
"What is that?"
Mom began shaking.
"Nothing."
I pulled the folder free.
Inside was a deed.
Another property.
Not Savannah.
Not Atlanta.
A small commercial parcel outside Charleston.
And attached to it was a handwritten agreement.
Dad read it.
Then sat down.
"What?" I asked.
He looked at Mom.
"You never filed this."
She cried harder.
"What is it?"
Dad handed it to me.
The agreement transferred his remaining interest in Mercer Family Holdings.
Not to Mom.
Not to Eric.
To me.
Signed fifteen years ago.
Witnessed.
Notarized.
Never recorded.
I looked at Dad.
"What does this mean?"
Rebecca answered.
"It means we need to investigate."
Mom covered her face.
But Dad kept staring at her.
Then he said:
"Tell Natalie why you hid it."
Mom whispered:
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
She looked at me.
"Because if that document was valid, Eric never owned the company."
My heartbeat slowed.
"Then who did?"
Mom's eyes met mine.
May you like
"You."
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