“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
The brother looked toward me.
“Because after she contacted me, I started thinking about what I did.”
“Twelve years late.”
“Yes.”
My father’s voice rose.
“You had twelve years.”
“I know.”
“You had twelve years to call.”
“I know.”
“Twelve years to tell my daughter the truth.”
“You stopped me.”
My father froze.
The brother continued.
“Three times.”
I looked at my father.
“When?”
The brother picked up his phone.
“The first time she was nine.”
My father closed his eyes.
“I sent a letter.”
I remembered no letter.
“Your father returned it unopened.”
The brother scrolled.
“The second time she was thirteen. I called the office.”
My father said nothing.
“Your father told me if I contacted either of you again, he would reopen everything and give police every document he had.”
I stared at my father.
“You threatened him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want him near you.”
“But you were fine with lying to me?”
“No.”
“That’s what you did.”
He lowered his head.
The brother continued.
“The third time was last year.”
My father looked up sharply.
“That wasn’t you.”
“It was.”
“What?”
“You thought it was a scam call.”
My father slowly sat down.
I remembered that call.
My father had received it during dinner.
His face had changed.
He stepped outside.
When he returned, he said someone was trying to scam him using information about my mother.
I had forgotten about it until now.
“You lied that night too,” I said.
“Yes.”
It was almost unbearable how quickly he admitted things now.
As if once one wall broke, he no longer had energy to rebuild it.
My stepmother moved toward the staircase again.
The brother said, “I wouldn’t.”
She stopped.
He looked at my father.
“There’s more.”
My father laughed bitterly.
“Of course there is.”
“Your wife didn’t only want money.”
My stepmother snapped, “Shut up.”
The brother ignored her.
“She wanted me to help convince you to sell this house.”
I looked around.
The house had belonged to my parents before my mother died.
I had taken my first steps in the living room.
There were pencil marks inside a pantry doorway showing my height from ages six through fourteen.
My mother had chosen the tile in the kitchen.
My father had renovated almost everything else, but he had never sold.
“Why?” I asked.
The brother looked at my stepmother.
“She owes money.”