Chapter 8: Richard and the Girls
I called Patricia that evening.
She had already received notice of Eleanor's filing and was not surprised to hear about the porch visit.
"She's establishing a pattern of personal outreach to contrast with legal action," Patricia said.
"It's a strategy.
She wants to appear reasonable while the petition does the aggressive work."
"Can she win?"
A pause.
"Not easily.
But she has resources and she will use them.
We need to move quickly on two fronts.
First, we document everything — the text message, the car outside your house, tonight's visit.
Second, we need Richard's statement formally on record before Eleanor's team has a chance to reframe his position."
"He said he'd cooperate fully."
"I'll contact him in the morning.
And—" Patricia hesitated.
"The girls.
If any of them are willing to speak with a family advocate, someone independent of both sides, that will carry significant weight."
"I'll ask them."
I did ask them.
That night, after Bea was in bed, I sat with the older three and told them what Patricia had said.
I told them no one was required to do anything.
I told them it was their choice, every step of it.
Maya said yes before I finished the sentence.
Cora said she would think about it.
By morning she had decided yes.
Dani said, "Will it actually help?" and when I said I believed it would, she said yes too.
The next afternoon, Richard came to the house.
I had told the girls the night before.
I had given them the photograph from Lily's note — a younger version of Richard, mid-thirties, standing outside a building I didn't recognize.
They had passed it around the kitchen table in silence.
Bea had studied it the longest.
"He has my nose," she said finally, with the certainty of a ten-year-old.
Cora had looked at it and handed it back without comment.
Maya had looked at it for a long time and then set it face-down on the table.
Not in anger.
In something more complicated than anger.
When Richard knocked on the door the next afternoon, I opened it and he was holding four small boxes of chocolates, one for each of them, which was either a very human instinct or very good advice from someone.
Either way, it was the right thing.
The first hour was careful and quiet.
Richard sat at the kitchen table and answered questions.
The girls asked them one at a time, without prompting from me.
Dani asked what he did for work.
He told her.
Cora asked whether he had known their mother well.
He said yes, for a time, and that she was one of the most remarkable people he had ever met.
His voice didn't waver when he said it.
Cora watched his face while he spoke.
Bea asked about the chocolates — specifically whether he had guessed their flavors or been told.
He admitted he had guessed, and Bea informed him that Dani didn't like caramel, which made Dani say that she would make an exception this once.
Maya said nothing for the first forty minutes.
She sat at the end of the table and listened to her sisters and watched Richard with the careful, measuring attention she had inherited directly from Lily.
Then she said: "Why didn't you look for her?"
The table went quiet.
Richard looked at Maya.
He didn't look away.
"I didn't know she was gone until four months ago," he said.
"I didn't know about any of you until four months ago.
If I had known—" He stopped.
Started again.
"I can't tell you what I would have done because I don't know for certain.
But I would like to believe I would have looked."
"That's an honest answer," Maya said.
"I'm trying to be honest with you."
"Your mother came to our house yesterday."
Richard's expression shifted.
"I know.
I'm sorry."
"Did you send her?"
"No.
I found out this morning.
We argued."
"What did she say?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"She said she was doing what was best for the family."
Maya looked at him steadily.
"Are we the family she meant?"
Richard held her gaze.
"I'm beginning to think that's exactly the right question."
After he left that evening, I stood at the kitchen window washing the mugs.
Maya came and stood beside me and picked up a dish towel without being asked.
We washed and dried in silence for a moment.
"He's not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?"
She thought about it.
"Someone who wanted something from us."
"And?"
"He just seemed sad." She set a mug in the cabinet.
"Like someone who found out too late that he missed something important."
I handed her the next mug.
"Does that change anything for you?"
She didn't answer right away.
"Not yet," she said.
"But maybe."
That was enough for now.
But when I turned off the kitchen light and went to check on Bea, I found a folded piece of paper on the hallway floor.
It had been slipped under the front door.
I unfolded it.
Three words, printed in neat block letters:
*WITHDRAW THE CASE.*
And below that, a number.
May you like
A very large number.
With a dollar sign in front of it.
