“You were twenty-two.”
“Still.”
I looked at him for a moment.
“Still.”
But even that wasn’t the entire truth. Six months after Mama’s funeral, Russell called me one Tuesday evening and finally admitted there was more about Wayne and the settlement that he had never told me.
“I need to tell you the full version.”
Russell explained that Wayne had spoken to him about my settlement before it was even finalized. Russell had actually been twenty-one when Wayne claimed the payout would be smaller than expected because of supposed “legal complications,” using impressive-sounding phrases such as “tax strategy” and “financial restructuring.”
Wayne also instructed him not to discuss the matter with Mama or me because it would only create unnecessary concern. Russell was barely an adult and Wayne was the authority figure in our house, so he believed him.
By the time I turned eighteen and Wayne announced that my money was gone, however, Russell already suspected something wasn’t right. Admitting that suspicion would also have meant confessing that Wayne had previously asked him to keep quiet, so embarrassment and guilt convinced him to say nothing.
Eventually, Russell moved to Memphis, and distance made avoiding the past much easier. But according to him, he had never completely stopped thinking about what happened.
“I thought about it every year.”
“My birthday?”
“Your birthday. Christmas. Everything. I kept telling myself you were okay. You had built a good life.”
“I did build a good life.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make what I did right.”
For once, Russell didn’t defend himself or offer an excuse.
“I’m sorry, Linda.”
