Chapter 5: The House on Birchwood
I went alone.
Daniel offered to come.
I told him I needed to do this part by myself, and he understood without needing it explained, which was one of the reasons I had married him.
My grandmother's house was a large Victorian on Birchwood Street that I had grown up visiting every Sunday.
The garden was immaculate.
The curtains were the same ones she'd had for fifteen years.
The brass knocker on the front door had been polished recently — I could tell by the way it caught the morning light.
I knocked twice.
She answered quickly, which told me she had been expecting me.
"Nora." She stepped back to let me in without being asked.
She was dressed properly, hair set, as though company was coming for tea.
"I'll put the kettle on."
"I don't want tea."
She paused in the hallway.
Then she turned to face me.
"All right," she said.
We went into the sitting room.
She took her usual chair.
I remained standing.
"You told her she would be on her own," I said.
"She was seventeen years old, she was pregnant, and you told her she would get nothing."
"It was a different time—"
"She has been living on the streets."
My grandmother's expression didn't break.
"I didn't know that."
"You knew where she was.
Grandpa said so."
A small pause.
"I knew she was in the city.
I didn't know her circumstances."
"You didn't want to know."
She folded her hands in her lap.
"I did what I thought was best for you.
You had a stable home.
You had an education.
You had every opportunity.
If Diane had stayed—"
"Her name is Diane.
She's your daughter."
"If she had stayed, your life would have been chaos.
She was not capable—"
"She was a child.
You made her incapable by taking everything away from her." I could hear my own voice changing, tightening.
"And then three years ago, when Grandpa tried to do the right thing and put her in the will, you called his lawyer and tried to have her removed."
The room went very still.
My grandmother's chin lifted slightly.
"Who told you that?"
"He did."
"He misunderstood the nature of that call."
"He said you denied it when he confronted you.
He said he believed you." I looked at her steadily.
"I don't."
She was quiet for a moment.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked.
"What is it you want from me, Nora?" Her voice was careful now.
Measured.
"An apology?
A confession?
What exactly will satisfy you?"
"I want the truth.
All of it.
Not the version you decided I was allowed to have."
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she looked away, toward the window, toward the immaculate garden.
"The truth," she said quietly, "is more complicated than you're prepared for."
"Try me."
May you like
She pressed her lips together.
And then, slowly, she began to speak.
