When my eighteenth birthday arrived, Wayne announced that nothing remained. He claimed unexpected expenses had consumed the account and even produced official-looking paperwork to prove it, and because I was eighteen and understood nothing about insurance settlements or financial records, I believed him.
I cried, found a job at a hardware store, and eventually moved forward with my life. Mama cried too, and for decades I assumed those tears had come from watching her daughter lose money she desperately needed.
Sitting in her kitchen with that letter in my hands, I finally understood that Mama had been crying for another reason.
She already knew the truth.
Behind me, Russell suddenly spoke.
“Don’t start digging up old things.”
Something about his tone immediately bothered me, and when I turned toward him, he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“You knew.”
“I don’t know what’s in that letter.”
“Russell.”
