Her mother had written several pages.
Some words were difficult.
But the opening was simple.
My sweet girl,
If you're reading this, perhaps you're having a hard day.
Maybe someone was unkind.
Maybe you made a mistake.
Maybe you miss me.
Or maybe you just need to hear somebody say that you are loved.
The girl's eyes filled immediately.
She read on.
There are things I hope you always remember.
You are not required to become smaller to make somebody else feel important.
You do not have to earn the right to be treated kindly.
You deserve food when you're hungry, rest when you're tired, and help when something frightens you.
The child pressed one hand against her mouth.
It felt as though her mother knew.
Knew about the chores.
The hunger.
The shoes.
The way she stood quietly at the edge of family photographs.
But her mother could not have known.
The letter had been written years earlier.
Perhaps that was what made it more powerful.
Her mother had not written those words because someone was hurting her.
She had written them because every child deserved to hear them.
The girl wiped her eyes.
Then continued.
Your father loves you very much.
Sometimes he becomes so busy taking care of everything that he forgets to sit still long enough to notice what's right in front of him.
If that ever happens, tell him.
Tell him I said he needs to put his work down and listen.
A weak laugh escaped the girl.
It sounded exactly like something her mother would have said.
Then she reached the final page.
I have arranged money to help protect your future.
It is yours, sweetheart, and it must be used for your benefit.
You are not selfish for needing things.
You are not greedy for asking questions.
When you're old enough, your father and the attorney can explain how the trust works.
No one gets to make you feel like a guest in your own home.
The girl read the final sentence again.
Then again.
Her hands began trembling.
She thought about her stepmother telling her the money was gone.
Thought about the new dresses.
The vacations.
The birthday gifts.
The way her stepsister could ask for almost anything while she was afraid to request a pair of shoes.
She looked at the letter.
Then toward the staircase.
For the first time, she wondered whether the person lying to her was not herself.
Perhaps her mother's money had never disappeared.
Perhaps someone simply did not want her to know where it went.
She folded the letter carefully.
Then looked beneath the cabinet again.
Something else lay near the back.
A second envelope.
White.
Thicker.
With the printed name of a financial institution across the corner.
It was addressed to her father.
Below his name was an account designation she recognized from her mother's letter.
She picked it up.
The envelope had already been opened.
Inside were several printed pages.