“And you still lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes moved toward his brother.
“Because by then he was gone.”
“So?”
“And because reopening the case meant admitting I had filed false statements.”
“So?”
“And insurance fraud.”
“So?”
“And possibly losing the company.”
I stood.
“Stop telling me what you would have lost.”
My voice shook.
“My mother had already lost everything.”
My father looked like I had struck him.
Good.
For once, I wanted the truth to hurt the person who had hidden it.
I walked upstairs.
My grandmother followed.
My room looked exactly as it had before.
That somehow made everything worse.
The backpack hook was empty.
The camera remained on the shelf.
My mother’s keepsake box sat on the desk.
I opened it.
Photographs.
A bracelet.
A birthday card.
A small bottle of perfume that had lost most of its scent.
I had spent years trying to build a person from objects.
Meanwhile everyone downstairs had known pieces of her last night that I had never been allowed to see.
My grandmother sat on the edge of the bed.
“What was she like when she was angry?”
The question surprised her.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
My grandmother smiled faintly.
“Quiet.”
“Not loud?”
“No. The angrier she became, the quieter she got.”
I looked down.
“Dad always says I do that.”
“You do.”
“Did she hate his brother?”
“By the end?”
“Yes.”
My grandmother considered.
“I don’t think hate is the right word.”
“What is?”
“She stopped trusting him.”
“Did she stop trusting Dad?”
My grandmother’s eyes softened.
“That is harder.”
“So yes.”
“She loved your father.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
My grandmother looked toward the door.
“She did not trust his judgment anymore.”
“Was she going to leave him?”
“For a while.”
The answer hurt.
“She called me the afternoon she died.”
My eyes filled.
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether you could stay with me for a week.”
“Because she was leaving Dad?”
“She wanted space.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Everything I had been told about my parents’ marriage had been curated.
They loved each other.
They fought sometimes.
They were happy.
My mother died.
My father never recovered.
All technically true.
Not remotely complete.
“What else did she say?”
My grandmother hesitated.
Then she opened the keepsake box.
She removed the bottom layer.
I had never noticed it could lift.
Underneath was a folded piece of paper.
My heart began pounding.