Chapter 8
Dad’s attempted transfer changed the way people spoke about the case.
Priya had always been careful. Now she called more often and asked me to keep every message Dad sent. Investigators began reviewing the trust records alongside the court case.
Dad stopped contacting me directly.
Mother said he had moved into a hotel after she told him she would not return home while he kept blaming us. I expected her to sound relieved. She sounded sad.
“I spent thirty-two years with him,” she told me. “Some of them were good.”
“I know.”
“I can remember that and still tell the truth about the money.”
It was the first time we had talked about her marriage without her asking me to excuse what Dad had done.
Madison was having a harder time. She and Daniel were still together, but he had asked her to take time before planning another ceremony.
One Saturday, she appeared at the library just as I finished my shift.
“I need to show you something,” she said.
We sat on a bench outside. She took out a small notebook and opened it to a list of payments Dad had promised to make for her wedding.
“I wrote these down each time he offered,” she said. “I told Priya about the notebook. She said you should know I kept it.”
Several payments were larger than I had imagined. Beside one, Madison had written Sarah’s trust?
“When did you write that?” I asked.
“Four months ago. Dad mentioned Grandma’s money at dinner.”
“You thought it might be mine.”
“I did.”
I closed the notebook and handed it back. My chest ached.
“I wanted to ask you,” she said. “Then I thought if the answer was yes, I’d have to change everything.”
“You could have changed it.”
“I know.”
We sat there while people passed with stacks of books under their arms.
“I can tell Priya I don’t want to see you anymore,” I said. “I can also listen when you tell me the truth. I haven’t decided what else I can do.”
Madison nodded. She did not ask me to decide that day.
At work, I began to notice how much room my family had taken up in my thoughts. When I shelved books, I had conversations with them in my head. When my phone rang, I braced myself before looking at it.
My supervisor suggested I take a few days off. I thanked her and stayed. The routine helped me.
Marcus and I had begun having dinner together once a week. We cooked at his apartment because he had a bigger kitchen. The first time, I ruined the pasta. He ate it anyway and asked me to choose the film.
One night I asked about the years after Dad disowned him.
“I was lonely,” he said. “I made friends. I got used to living without family dinners.”
“I wish you hadn’t had to.”
“I wish we could have talked.”
I turned my glass between my hands. “I believed Dad when he said you wanted Grandma’s money.”
“You were ill. He knew how to make me sound dangerous.”
“I believed him before I got ill.”
Marcus did not pretend that part hadn’t hurt. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you myself.”
“Thank you.”
It was not an easy conversation. Afterward, I felt closer to him.
A month after the hearing, Priya called us into her office. The full accounting was nearly complete. Dad had used trust money for debts connected to the house and the club, then for Madison’s wedding. Some payments had been made while I was in treatment.
Priya showed me the amount that should have been available when I first went into the hospital.
I thought about the bills I had opened in bed, too tired to sit up. I thought about choosing the cheaper ride to an appointment because I could not afford a taxi home.
Marcus read the page beside me. His jaw tightened.
“Can he repay it?” I asked.
“Some assets can be used toward repayment,” Priya said. “We’re pursuing that. The independent trustee can also use the funds already secured for your benefit.”
I looked up. “Now?”
“Now.”
For two years I had treated every medical bill as a danger I had to face alone. I had to ask Priya to repeat herself.
She gave me the trustee’s contact details. The next day, with her help, I arranged for my outstanding treatment bills to be reviewed for payment from the protected funds.
I cried after the call, sitting alone at my kitchen table.
Mother came over later. I told her the bills might finally be covered.
“I’m glad,” she said.
“You knew I was struggling.”
“Yes.”
She did not defend herself. I was grateful for that, though I still wanted those two years back.
Before she left, she noticed the pieces of Madison’s broken bowl in a box beside my bookshelf.
“Why did you keep it?” she asked.
“Grandma had one like it.”
“She did.” Mother touched the edge of the box. “You and Marcus used to argue over who got to serve dessert from it.”
I smiled despite myself.
Mother looked at me. “I wish I’d protected those memories better.”
May you like
After she left, I took the largest piece of the bowl from the box. A painted blue flower had survived along its rim.
For the first time, I could hold it without seeing the club floor.
