Chapter 1: The Twenty-Dollar Daughter
My wealthy sister gave Mom $20 for her 70th birthday and said, "At her age, she doesn't need much" — then I got an idea for her gift.
My sister Melissa arrived at Mom's 70th birthday carrying a designer handbag that probably cost more than my car payment.
She'd always been the successful one.
Big house, expensive vacations, a husband who owned three dental clinics.
I expected her to make a big show of Mom's gift.
Instead, she pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and tucked it into Mom's birthday card.
"At her age, she doesn't need much," she said, laughing.
Mom smiled politely.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
But I saw her quickly fold the card and place it beneath her plate.
It wasn't about the money.
Mom had spent years helping Melissa.
She'd watched her kids for free, cooked meals when Melissa worked late, and even emptied part of her retirement savings when Melissa and her husband bought their first house.
I was furious.
I almost said something right then.
Then I remembered the wooden box in Mom's bedroom.
She'd shown it to me months earlier while we were sorting through her closet.
Inside were dozens of things she'd saved from our childhood: report cards, drawings, hospital bracelets, old photographs.
And two small notebooks.
That's when I got an idea.
"Mom," I said, "I forgot your real present at home.
Can we do gifts again tomorrow?"
Melissa laughed.
"You're making her wait another day?"
I ignored her.
The next afternoon, everyone came back for leftover cake.
I placed a large wrapped box in front of Mom.
Melissa leaned back, amused.
Mom removed the paper.
Inside was a scrapbook I'd made from copies of everything she'd kept — photographs, Mother's Day cards, little notes we'd written as children.
Mom covered her mouth.
Then she reached the final page.
Her smile disappeared.
I hadn't put anything unusual there.
Just a photocopy of one page from those old notebooks.
Melissa suddenly stood up.
"Where did you get that?"
I looked at her.
"From Mom's box.
Why?"
She grabbed the scrapbook before Mom could answer and started flipping through the pages.
Then she stopped, staring at one handwritten date.
Mom's face went white.
Without a word, she pushed back her chair and walked into her bedroom.
Seconds later, she returned with a small brass key.
Melissa shot to her feet.
"Mom, no."
Mom ignored her and knelt beside the locked bottom drawer.
Melissa suddenly lunged across the room.
"Don't open that!"
Click.
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What is inside that drawer — and why is Melissa so desperate to stop Mom from opening it?
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