Chapter 8: What Mark Meant to Leave Behind
The account records arrived from Garrett's office four days later.
I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea going cold beside me and read through every page.
The account had been opened sixteen months ago.
Payments had gone out on the fifteenth of each month — modest, steady, exactly what Mark had described in his letter.
Then, ten months ago, a single instruction on headed paper, signed by Richard, directing the account to be closed and the remaining balance transferred to the general estate fund.
The remaining balance was four hundred and sixty pounds.
I looked at that number for a long time.
Four hundred and sixty pounds.
That was what Richard had decided Daniel's claim on his father's estate was worth absorbing quietly.
I called my own solicitor — a woman named Frances, who had handled our house purchase and who had a way of listening that made you feel the problem was already half solved.
"I've read the records," Frances said.
"The closure was technically within the scope of the power of attorney as written.
But the intent of the account is clearly documented in Mark's original instructions to Garrett.
If Richard knew about the paternity test — and it sounds very much like he did — then there's a reasonable argument that he acted contrary to the spirit of the instrument."
"Can we get the money back?"
"The estate is still in probate," she said.
"I can file a challenge to that specific transaction.
Given that Richard has already indicated he'll cooperate, he may simply agree to reinstate without a formal dispute."
"And Daniel's ongoing entitlement?"
A pause.
"That depends on what you want, Sarah.
Mark didn't formally name Daniel in his will.
He may not have had time, or he may have been uncertain how to do it without — without having the conversation with you first."
I looked at the records on the table.
"I want Daniel provided for," I said.
"Not through the estate dispute.
Through me.
I want to set up a new account, in my name, with regular payments.
I want it documented properly so it can't be touched."
"I can draw that up," Frances said.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"It's a significant commitment.
You have a baby coming.
Your own finances—"
"I know my finances," I said.
"Mark left things in good order.
There's enough.
And this is what he wanted.
He just didn't get to finish arranging it."
Frances was quiet for a moment.
"All right.
I'll draft the documents."
After I hung up, I sat for a while in the quiet kitchen.
I had been angry at Mark.
I needed to say that honestly, even just to myself.
I had been angry that he had carried this for three years and never once found the words.
I had been angry that he had trusted Richard — careful, practical Mark, who read people so well in every other area of his life — and had not seen what Richard was.
But I had also read his letter a dozen times by then.
I knew it by heart.
*You are the only person I know who would read this letter and not throw it away.*
He had known me.
That was the thing.
He had known exactly what I would do, and he had trusted it, and he had been right.
I wasn't sure yet whether that made the anger smaller or larger.
Maybe both at once.
I drove to Ruth's that afternoon.
She opened the door before I reached the step, as if she had been watching from the window.
"Come in," she said.
"He's been asking about you."
Daniel was at the kitchen table with a drawing pad and a set of felt-tip pens.
He looked up when I came in.
"You came back," he said.
"I said I would."
He considered this, then held up his drawing.
It was a house with four figures standing in front of it — two tall, two small.
"That's me," he said, pointing to one of the small figures.
"And that's Nana.
And that's the baby." He pointed to the smallest figure.
"I don't know what to call the baby yet."
"Neither do I," I said.
"She hasn't told me yet."
Daniel found this very reasonable.
He went back to his drawing.
I sat down across from Ruth.
"The account is being reinstated," I said quietly.
"All the missed payments, with interest.
And I'm setting up a new arrangement — through my own solicitor, properly documented.
It won't be touched again."
Ruth's hands were flat on the table.
She looked at them for a moment.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"Mark wanted to," I said.
"I'm just finishing what he started."
Ruth looked up.
Her eyes were wet, but she didn't let it go further than that.
"He was a good man," she said.
"He made mistakes.
But he was a good man."
"Yes," I said.
"He was."
Daniel looked up from his drawing.
"Are you going to be our friend?" he asked.
Not to Ruth.
To me.
I looked at him — at Mark's eyes in that small, serious face.
"Yes," I said.
"I'm going to be your friend."
He nodded, satisfied, and added another figure to his drawing.
Taller than the others.
Standing beside the house.
May you like
I didn't ask who it was.
I thought I already knew.
