Chapter 4 - Seventeen Years of Unanswered Letters
I returned to the living room holding Grandpa's letter against my chest.
My parents were arguing with Mr. Whitmore.
Brianna was on her phone, apparently explaining to somebody that her grandfather had "completely lost his mind."
Nobody noticed me until I spoke.
"I want to see the study."
Mom stopped mid-sentence.
"No."
It came too quickly.
Too sharply.
Mr. Whitmore turned toward me.
"Of course, Emily."
My mother stood.
"I said no."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because we haven't finished discussing the estate!"
"The estate already has an owner," the attorney replied.
For a moment, Mom looked as though she might physically attack him.
Instead, she turned to my father.
"Richard, say something!"
Dad rubbed his forehead.
"Emily, let's not make this uglier than necessary."
I looked from one face to another.
The people who had abandoned me were standing in Grandpa's living room, trying to prevent me from entering the room where he'd spent most of his life.
Something finally shifted inside me.
"No," I said.
My voice was quiet.
But it didn't shake.
"You don't get to decide which rooms I can enter anymore."
I walked down the hallway.
Mr. Whitmore followed.
The study smelled exactly as I remembered: leather, old books, lemon furniture polish, and Grandpa's peppermint candies.
His reading lamp sat beside an open notebook.
A half-finished crossword rested beneath his glasses.
I had avoided this room since returning from the hospital.
It felt too much like walking into a conversation he'd stepped away from.
Mr. Whitmore closed the door behind us.
"Your grandfather asked me to give you time with this material," he said. "You don't have to read it all today."
I shook my head.
"I need to."
He approached the desk and removed its third drawer.
Beneath it, fitted into a narrow hidden compartment, was a green metal box.
I'd never known it existed.
The attorney placed it gently in front of me.
There was a small brass padlock.
Grandpa's hospital key opened it perfectly.
Inside were neatly arranged envelopes, a thick ledger, several old photographs, and a bundle of letters tied with faded blue ribbon.
My name appeared on almost every envelope.
I picked up the first one.
It was dated six months after my parents left.
The handwriting belonged to Grandpa.
Dear Caroline,
Emily turned six yesterday. She waited until nearly midnight because you told her last year that birthdays were important.
She asked whether perhaps you had the wrong telephone number.
Please call her. Whatever disagreement exists between us, she is your daughter.
I swallowed hard.
The next letter was written three months later.
Richard,
Emily has started school. Her teacher says she's bright, curious, and exceptionally kind. She drew a picture of all five of us together.
I don't know how many more excuses I can invent when she asks why you don't visit.
The letters continued.
Christmas.
Easter.
Birthdays.
School plays.
Her first lost tooth.
My first spelling-bee trophy.
My broken arm at nine.
Every significant moment of my childhood had been documented by a grandfather desperately trying to convince my parents to remember I existed.
And then I found their replies.
Some were short.
Some painfully formal.
One from my mother, dated fourteen months after she'd abandoned me, made my stomach twist.
Dad,
We discussed this. Emily is better off with you. Brianna needs stability, and Richard's career cannot survive another scandal.
Please stop involving us in every little milestone.
You agreed to take responsibility for her. I expect you to honor that arrangement.
I read it twice.
Another letter had been sent when I was eight.
Do not allow Emily to contact Brianna directly. Her therapist believes that revisiting the past is unhealthy.
I stared at those words.
Brianna had a therapist?
To help her recover from having a younger sister?
A strange, bitter laugh escaped me.
Mr. Whitmore remained silent.
I untied the blue ribbon.
At the bottom of the bundle was an envelope addressed directly to me.
It had never been opened.
The return address belonged to my parents' old home in Connecticut.
I looked at the date.
My tenth birthday.
For one impossible second, hope rushed through me.
They had written.
They had remembered.
I carefully opened the envelope.
Inside was a birthday card.
A cartoon kitten holding balloons.
No money.
No photograph.
Just four sentences.
Dear Emily,
We hope you're doing well. Grandpa tells us you're growing into a lovely young lady.
Please understand that circumstances sometimes require difficult decisions.
Love, Mom and Dad.
My tears fell onto the paper.
I wasn't crying because they'd forgotten me.
I was crying because they hadn't.
They had remembered exactly where I was.
They simply hadn't wanted me back.
Mr. Whitmore quietly offered me a tissue.
"Why didn't Grandpa give me these?"
"He was afraid they'd make you believe something untrue about yourself."
"What?"
"That you were unwanted by everyone."
I covered my face.
For years, Grandpa had told me that my parents' choices belonged to them.
He had never told me how hard he'd fought to change those choices.
I sat in his chair for a long time.
Eventually, I looked through the remaining documents.
A handwritten note caught my attention.
It was dated three weeks before my sixth birthday.
Unlike the other letters, it wasn't written by Grandpa.
It was written by my father.
Arthur,
We need to discuss the Bennett Family Holdings account before Caroline receives another statement.
The discrepancies cannot become public.
If this situation escalates, everyone loses—including the girls.
My eyes narrowed.
"What account?"
Mr. Whitmore looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
"Your grandfather asked me to let you discover that particular matter in your own time."
"Why?"
"Because the financial situation surrounding your parents' departure was considerably more complicated than they ever admitted."
I found another sheet.
A bank statement.
Several large transfers.
One name repeated across the documents.
HARTWELL DEVELOPMENT GROUP.
I had heard that name before.
My father used to work for Hartwell.
In fact, according to the expensive business magazines Brianna frequently posted online, he was now one of its senior partners.
A handwritten note appeared at the bottom of the statement.
Richard knows where the money went.
Beneath it, Grandpa had written:
Ask Evelyn about October 14.
I looked up.
"Who's Evelyn?"
Mr. Whitmore hesitated.
"Someone your grandfather trusted."
"Where is she?"
"Still in town, as far as I know."
I examined the final photograph in the box.
It showed my parents standing outside Grandpa's house seventeen years earlier.
Dad carried a suitcase.
Mom held Brianna's hand.
And in the background, almost hidden behind the open door, stood a young woman in a pale blue dress.
She was holding five-year-old me.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, Grandpa had written one sentence.
Evelyn saw everything.
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