Chapter 7: What Tom Knew
The letter was four pages, written by hand on the yellow legal paper Tom had always used for things he considered serious.
I read it twice before I understood it.
Then I sat up and read it a third time.
He had written it in February, when the prognosis had stopped being uncertain.
He had written it carefully, in the way he did everything — methodically, without drama, thinking three steps ahead.
The first page was for me.
Not instructions.
Just him.
The way he talked when no one else was in the room — direct and a little wry and completely honest.
He said he was sorry he was leaving before he was supposed to.
He said he knew I was going to be fine even when I didn't believe it.
He said Louise had his stubbornness and his mother's instincts, and that was a dangerous combination, and I should probably just accept now that she was going to be right about most things.
I laughed out loud at that.
Alone in the bedroom.
It surprised me.
The second and third pages were practical.
He had updated his will in January.
Diane had the documents.
The house was clear — no second mortgage, no hidden debt.
There was a life insurance policy he had quietly increased eighteen months ago, when the first tests came back inconclusive and he had decided not to take chances.
He listed the account numbers, the contact names, the steps in order.
Then the fourth page.
*There is one thing I need to tell you that I should have told you sooner.
I didn't because I was handling it, and then I ran out of time to finish handling it, and I'm sorry for that.*
*My brother Daniel has been borrowing against a joint account we opened years ago — before you and I were married.
I thought it was closed.
It wasn't.
He's been making small withdrawals for about two years.
The total is not catastrophic, but it's not nothing.
Diane knows.
She has the records.
I didn't confront Daniel because I kept thinking I'd have more time.*
*I don't want you to be angry at him on my behalf.
But I also don't want you to be blindsided.
He will come to you after I'm gone with a version of events.
The version will be incomplete.*
*Trust Diane.
Trust Louise.
Trust yourself.*
*I love you.
I'm sorry I have to go first.
Take care of our kids.*
I sat with the letter in my hands for a long time.
Daniel.
Tom's younger brother.
He had been at the funeral — quiet, red-eyed, standing slightly apart from the rest of the family.
I had assumed grief.
I had hugged him.
I had told him Tom had loved him.
My phone buzzed again.
A different name this time.
Daniel.
*Hey Claire.
I know this is a hard time.
I was wondering if we could talk soon — there are some things about Tom's finances I think you should know about before you meet with any lawyers.
I want to make sure you're protected.*
I read the message three times.
*Before you meet with any lawyers.*
He didn't know I'd already met with Diane.
He didn't know about the letter.
He was moving fast — faster than he thought he needed to, which meant he was more worried than he was letting on.
I set the phone face-down on the bed.
Louise appeared in the doorway.
She had her tablet under her arm.
"Mom?
Grandma made eggs."
"I'll be right down."
She looked at me.
At the letter in my hands.
At the phone face-down on the bed.
"Is everything okay?"
I folded the letter carefully along Tom's original creases.
"Your dad was very smart," I said.
Louise considered this.
"I know."
"He thought of everything."
"I know," she said again, simpler this time, like it was just a fact about the world.
I put the letter back in the envelope.
"Go eat," I said.
"I need to make a call."
She went.
I picked up my phone, turned it over, and opened my contacts.
I called Diane.
She picked up on the second ring.
"I read the letter," I said.
"I thought you might have." A pause.
"Daniel reached out to you."
It wasn't a question.
"Twenty minutes ago," I said.
"He contacted me yesterday," Diane said.
"Wanting to discuss the estate before I met with you.
I told him I represent you, not the family generally, and that any communication should go through me." Another pause.
"He didn't take that well."
"What did he say?"
"He said Tom would have wanted the family taken care of."
"Tom did take care of the family," I said.
"He took care of us."
"Yes," Diane said.
"He did." I could hear her moving — the sound of a chair, papers.
"Claire, I need you to not respond to Daniel's message.
Not yet.
Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good.
I'd like to come to you, if that's alright.
There are documents I want to show you in person.
Some of what Daniel has done is recoverable.
Some of it will require him to make a choice." She paused.
"I want you to be in the room when he makes it."
The eggs were getting cold downstairs.
Louise was probably eating alone, watching her tablet, giving me time she shouldn't have to give at eight years old.
"When can you come?" I said.
"Tomorrow morning," Diane said.
"If that works."
"It works."
"Get some rest tonight," she said.
"Tomorrow will be a long day."
I hung up and sat for a moment in the quiet room.
Then I went downstairs to eat eggs with my daughter and my mother, and I didn't say anything about the letter or Daniel or tomorrow, because some things could wait one more morning.
But Daniel's message sat in my phone like a stone.
*I want to make sure you're protected.*
May you like
He was coming.
And he had no idea what was already waiting for him.
