“Mom.”
“And she’s giving it to me.”
Willa pushed away from the counter.
“What?”
I told her everything.
The check.
The education account.
The deed.
Margaret’s letter.
By the time I finished, Willa was crying too.
“She did all that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently she’s been secretly watching us struggle for eight years.”
Willa smiled through tears.
“That sounds creepy when you say it like that.”
I laughed.
It felt good.
Then Willa picked up the letter.
She read it quietly.
Halfway through, she stopped.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She pointed near the bottom.
“What does this mean?”
There was a sentence I had
overlooked.
Before you sign the deed, please speak with Evelyn.
There is something she deserves to tell you herself.
A cold feeling entered my stomach.
Evelyn.
Margaret’s daughter.
I had met her maybe seven times in eight years.
She lived two states away.
She was elegant, efficient, always moving quickly.
Our conversations rarely lasted more than a minute.
“Maybe it’s legal stuff,” I said.
But I didn’t believe it.
The next morning, my phone rang.
