Chapter 5
For the next three days, Dad barely let his phone out of his sight.
He called lawyers.
Spoke with investigators.
Contacted former employees of Mom's charity.
And reviewed old financial records.
But he didn't forget about me.
Every morning, he made breakfast.
Every afternoon, he asked about school.
And every night, he sat beside my bed until I fell asleep.
I noticed.
For years, I'd been afraid to tell him what happened when he traveled.
Now he was showing me that I didn't have to face difficult things alone.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking about Mom's letter.
One evening, I found Dad sitting in his office.
The door was open.
He held a folded piece of paper.
I knocked.
"Daddy?"
He looked up.
"Hey, baby."
I stepped inside.
"Is that Mommy's letter?"
He nodded.
I swallowed.
"Can you read some of it to me?"
His expression softened.
"Are you sure?"
I nodded.
He pulled a chair beside his desk.
I sat down.
Then he unfolded the paper.
His voice trembled as he began.
"My dearest Marcus."
I felt tears filling my eyes.
Dad continued reading.
"If you're holding this letter, I may not have had the chance to explain everything."
He paused.
I reached for his hand.
He squeezed mine.
Then continued.
"I found irregularities in the charity's accounts."
My stomach tightened.
"I believe someone I trusted has been moving money without authorization."
Dad took a breath.
"I've asked for an independent review."
He stopped.
Then looked at me.
"That's the part about the financial issue."
I nodded.
"Was Vanessa the person?"
Dad shook his head.
"We don't know everything yet."
I stared at the letter.
"Keep reading."
He hesitated.
Then continued with a different paragraph.
"Whatever happens, please tell Maya that she was the greatest joy of my life."
My eyes filled immediately.
Dad's voice broke.
"Tell her that being her mother made every difficult day worth facing."
I began crying.
Dad pulled me into his arms.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then he continued softly.
"I've saved photographs, videos, and letters for her."
I looked up.
Dad's eyes widened.
He read the next sentence.
"They're stored with Rebecca, in the blue wooden chest."
I froze.
"Aunt Becca has a chest?"
Dad looked stunned.
"I didn't know."
My heart began pounding.
"Can we ask her?"
He nodded.
"Tomorrow."
But I couldn't wait.
I begged him to call that night.
Rebecca answered immediately.
Dad explained the letter.
For a moment, she was silent.
Then she whispered, "Oh, Arthur."
Dad sat upright.
"You know about the chest?"
She began crying.
"Yes."
My heart jumped.
Rebecca explained that Mom had given her a blue wooden chest before entering the hospital for her final treatment.
She asked Rebecca to keep it safe.
Rebecca believed Dad already knew about it.
But after Mom died, the family was overwhelmed.
The chest was placed in storage.
And nobody opened it.
Dad covered his face.
I stared at him.
For the first time, I realized how much grief could make people forget ordinary things.
Mom had tried to leave us memories.
But we'd been too heartbroken to know where to look.
The next morning, Rebecca arrived carrying a blue wooden chest.
It was small.
Painted pale blue.
With a silver latch.
She placed it on our dining table.
I touched the lid.
"Mommy painted this?"
Rebecca smiled through her tears.
"She did."
Dad sat beside me.
Then gently opened it.
Inside were envelopes.
Photographs.
A tiny pair of baby shoes.
A hospital bracelet.
And a thick scrapbook.
I began crying.
I recognized the shoes.
They were the pink sneakers I wore when I learned to walk.
Mom had kept them.
Dad picked up the scrapbook.
On the first page was a photograph of me as a newborn.
Beneath it, Mom had written:
MY LITTLE SUNSHINE.
I laughed through my tears.
We turned the pages.
My first birthday.
My first steps.
My first haircut.
My first day of preschool.
Every page contained handwritten notes.
Mom had been recording my life long before she gave me the camera.
For a moment, I forgot Vanessa.
The fire.
The arguments.
All I could see was proof that Mom had loved me.
Then Rebecca found another envelope.
It was sealed.
On the front were three words.
FOR MY MAYA.
My hands trembled.
I looked at Dad.
He smiled gently.
"It's yours."
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a letter written in Mom's handwriting.
My sweet girl,
If you're old enough to read this, I hope you're growing into a brave and kind young woman.
I know I may not be there for every birthday.
But I want you to remember something.
Your voice matters.
Your feelings matter.
And nobody who truly loves you should make you afraid to tell the truth.
I stopped reading.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
Dad covered his mouth.
I continued.
Never let anyone convince you that being kind means allowing them to hurt you.
You can be gentle and strong at the same time.
I looked toward Dad.
He was crying silently.
Then I read the final sentence.
And whenever you miss me, look for the little moments of beauty around you. That's where I hope you'll feel my love.
I held the letter against my chest.
For a long time, nobody spoke.
Then I whispered, "I miss you, Mommy."
Dad hugged me.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around us.
And for the first time since the fire, I felt as though I hadn't lost everything.
The camera was destroyed.
But Mom's love wasn't inside plastic and wires.
It was inside the memories she'd protected for me.
That afternoon, Dad received an update from the financial investigators.
The former accountant had confirmed several questionable transactions.
Some payments appeared to have been redirected into accounts controlled by Vanessa.
The amounts totaled more than one hundred thousand dollars.
Dad looked devastated.
But the investigator explained that the documents required further examination.
No conclusion had yet been reached about criminal responsibility.
Dad agreed to cooperate fully.
Then another problem emerged.
An investigator found that Vanessa had recently contacted the storage company holding records from the closed charity.
She requested access to archived documents.
Her request had been denied.
I stared at Dad.
"Was she looking for Mommy's papers?"
He took a breath.
"Possibly."
My stomach tightened.
Then he said something that made me freeze.
"Your camera wasn't the only thing Vanessa tried to find."
I looked up.
"What?"
Dad held out a photograph.
It showed the blue wooden chest.
The photograph had been taken on Vanessa's phone.
My heart stopped.
May you like
She had known about the chest.
And she had been looking for it before we even knew it existed.
