“Different how?”
“He said you were strong.”
I laughed once.
It sounded terrible.
“Strong.”
“He said you’d get over it.”
There it was.
The entire architecture of my childhood in six words.
They hurt me because I was easier to hurt.
Howard looked ashamed.
“Your father didn’t understand how bad it sounded until he heard himself say it out loud.”
I stared at the floorboards.
Then Howard said, “But that isn’t everything.”
Before I could ask, my phone rang.
Dad.
My heart lurched.
Howard stared at the screen.
“Answer it.”
I almost didn’t.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
Dad sounded breathless.
“Claire?”
It was the first time he had said my name in nearly two weeks.
“What?”
“Is Howard there?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
Dad swore softly.
Then his voice turned urgent.
Afraid.
“Do not sign anything he gives you.”
I froze.
“What?”
Howard closed his eyes.
Dad continued quickly.
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“Claire, listen to me. Whatever Howard says, you need to come home first. We can explain everything.”
Cold ran down my spine.
“Explain what?”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“I need you to trust me.”
I nearly laughed.
That sentence was almost cruel.
Howard spoke from the doorway.
“Ask him about Eleanor’s trust.”
Dad heard him.
“Howard, shut your mouth.”
I stopped breathing.
“What trust?”
My father said nothing.
“Dad. What trust?”
Then the line went dead.
Twenty minutes later, Howard sat at Lena’s aunt’s kitchen table.
A thick brown envelope lay between us.
“I lied,” he said.
“About what?”
“Your dad didn’t send me.”
I stared at him.
“He asked me to convince you to come home. But that’s not why I came.”
He pushed the envelope toward me.
“Your grandmother asked me to.”
Grandma Eleanor had died two years earlier.
My hands went cold.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“She knew she was sick long before she told your family.”
Howard explained that he hadn’t just worked for Grandma.
He had been her business partner during the café’s early days and a witness to her estate documents.
Before dying, she created a trust.
For me.
Not Leanne.
Me.
I opened the envelope.
Legal language blurred across the page.
Then I saw numbers.
Property descriptions.
Bank accounts.
Ownership percentages.
I looked up.
“I don’t understand.”
Howard tapped a page.
“Your grandmother never transferred the whole café to your father.”
“What?”
“She gave him management rights.”
I stared at him.
“He owns it.”
“No.”
Howard’s voice was gentle.
“You do.”
The room seemed to tilt.
According to the documents, Grandma had placed fifty-one percent of the Pine Street café, the building itself, and part of its accumulated profits into a trust in my name.
Until I turned eighteen, Dad could manage those assets.
