Chapter 7 - The Daughter They Never Wanted
For most of my childhood, I imagined my parents had abandoned me because I was difficult.
Maybe I'd cried too much.
Maybe I'd been too expensive.
Maybe I had disappointed them in some way nobody had bothered explaining.
Children are remarkably skilled at making themselves responsible for adult cruelty.
Grandpa had spent twenty-five years trying to convince me otherwise.
It took one morning in his hidden study to understand how completely he'd been right.
Miriam opened another file.
"Arthur believed it was important that Leah and Julia eventually understood the circumstances surrounding the separation."
She laid several photocopied documents on the desk.
The first was a letter written by my mother in August 2001.
It wasn't addressed to Grandpa.
It was addressed to a private financial consultant named Gregory Vance.
Miriam read a short section.
"Our current family arrangements are interfering with James's ability to fulfill the relocation requirements. We are exploring alternatives for the older child."
I stared at the page.
"The older child."
Not Leah.
Not our daughter.
Just an administrative problem.
Julia looked disgusted.
"What relocation requirements?"
Dad cleared his throat.
"Business matters. It was a difficult period."
Miriam opened another document.
"In 2001, James was offered a partnership in a private investment firm based in Connecticut. According to the agreement, the opportunity came with significant personal financing obligations."
My father shifted in his seat.
"The partnership was legitimate."
"That isn't in dispute at this moment."
Miriam continued.
"The documents also show substantial debt, an impending foreclosure on your previous residence, and a plan to relocate with limited financial resources."
Mom interrupted.
"We were trying to build a better life for our children."
"Both children?" Julia asked.
Rebecca turned toward her.
"Of course."
"Then why did you leave Leah?"
Dad rubbed his forehead.
"We needed Arthur's help."
I leaned forward.
"So you asked him to raise me temporarily?"
He hesitated.
My mother answered.
"Yes."
I looked at Miriam.
She quietly turned to another page.
It contained a signed statement Grandpa had prepared shortly after my parents left.
He'd written that Rebecca and James had declined to specify a return date and had repeatedly refused to discuss reunification.
The statement was accompanied by an old letter.
My father's handwriting covered the envelope.
Inside, he'd written:
Arthur, we appreciate you taking responsibility for Leah. We believe it's best that she remain in your household indefinitely. Please don't encourage her to expect otherwise.
I read it twice.
Then I looked at my father.
"Indefinitely?"
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"You have to understand what things were like."
"I was five."
"We were under enormous pressure."
"So was I."
His expression tightened.
"Leah, you're looking at the situation with twenty-five years of hindsight."
"No," I replied. "I'm looking at it with twenty-five years of abandonment."
For once, he had no immediate answer.
Miriam opened Grandpa's notebook to an entry dated December 24, 2001.
I remembered that Christmas.
Grandpa had bought a little artificial tree from a discount store and spent three hours untangling the lights.
I had put two stockings above the fireplace.
One for me.
One for Julia.
When Grandpa asked why, I told him she might come home in time for Santa.
That Christmas Eve, he telephoned my parents.
According to the journal, Dad answered.
Grandpa asked whether the girls could spend Christmas together.
Dad refused.
Grandpa offered to drive me three hours just to let us exchange presents.
Dad refused again.
The final line read:
Leah stayed awake until midnight watching the driveway. I couldn't bear to tell her the call had lasted less than forty seconds.
I covered my face.
That was the first time Noah pulled me into his arms in front of my family.
I didn't care who saw.
I needed something solid.
Something that wouldn't disappear.
Julia stared at the notebook.
Then she said, "I remember that Christmas."
We all looked at her.
"I had a dollhouse. A big pink one. Dad told me Santa gave it to me because I'd been a good girl."
She rubbed her eyes.
"I asked why Leah didn't get one, too."
Mom closed her eyes.
Julia's voice dropped.
"You told me Santa didn't bring presents to children who ran away."
The room went silent.
My stomach turned.
I thought of that little girl sitting beneath a Christmas tree, learning to believe her sister had chosen to leave.
I had always imagined Julia growing up surrounded by love.
But perhaps the story was more complicated.
Perhaps she'd grown up learning that affection was conditional.
That disobedience meant rejection.
That becoming inconvenient could make a person disappear.
"Julia," I whispered.
She shook her head.
"I believed her."
"You were two when I left. You didn't know."
"I believed her for years."
Her tears fell onto the open birthday card.
"I thought you hated us."
I reached across the table.
She hesitated.
Then she placed her hand in mine.
It was the first time we'd held hands since the back seat of my father's car.
Miriam gave us a brief recess.
Mom and Dad went outside to telephone their attorney.
Julia stayed in the study.
She studied the photographs on Grandpa's desk.
There were dozens of me.
First day of school.
Prom.
Graduation.
My first architectural award.
Grandpa and me beside the old blue pickup.
Julia touched a photograph of me wearing a graduation gown.
"He went to all your important things?"
"Every single one."
"Did he ever forget your birthday?"
"Never."
She swallowed.
"Mom forgot my twenty-first."
I looked at her.
"Really?"
"She was at a conference. Dad sent his assistant to buy flowers."
I didn't know what to say.
Julia laughed bitterly.
"Everyone always told me how lucky I was. Fancy schools. Vacations. A nice car when I turned sixteen."
"That sounds nice."
"It was."
She looked at me.
"But I was never allowed to ask about you."
I moved beside her.
"What happened if you did?"
"Mom said you were unstable. Dad said you were trying to manipulate Grandpa for his inheritance."
The irony would have been funny if it hadn't stolen so much of our lives.
Julia turned toward the photograph of Grandpa.
"He doesn't look like I imagined."
"What did you imagine?"
"Mean. Bitter. Somebody who hated our family."
I looked at his smiling face.
"He was stubborn. Terrible at remembering where he put his glasses. He burned pancakes almost every Sunday."
Julia laughed through her tears.
"And he loved you?"
I nodded.
"More than I knew what to do with sometimes."
She looked at the wall of journals.
"Do you think he would've loved me, too?"
I put my arm around her.
"He already did."
That was when Caroline entered the room.
She looked troubled.
"Miriam needs to speak with Leah privately."
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Caroline glanced toward the driveway.
"Your parents have just presented another document to their attorney."
"What document?"
"A purported property transfer signed by Arthur."
I frowned.
"The house is already in my name."
May you like
"Yes," Caroline said carefully.
"But according to the document they're holding, your grandfather supposedly signed it back over to Rebecca three days before he died."
