Chapter 3: What the Letter Said
The paper was soft at the folds, like it had been opened and refolded many times.
Nia's mother — my first wife, Diane — had died three years ago.
Ovarian cancer.
Fourteen months from diagnosis to the end.
I had held her hand through all of it.
I recognized her handwriting immediately.
The looping D.
The way she always pressed too hard on the pen.
I read the first line out loud without meaning to.
*"Marcus, if you're reading this, I'm already gone.
Please make sure Nia gets the box.
Everything inside belongs to her."*
My throat closed.
"Keep reading," Nia said quietly.
I looked at Vanessa.
She hadn't moved.
Her arms were crossed and her jaw was set, but her eyes were watching the letter the way you watch something you can't take back.
I read the next section silently.
Then I stopped.
"She left Nia her grandmother's ring," I said.
"The one her mother gave her before she passed.
And a savings account." I looked up.
"Diane opened a savings account for Nia two months before she d**d.
She put eleven thousand dollars in it."
The cashier made a small sound.
I didn't look at her.
"I didn't know about the account," I said, more to myself than anyone.
"She told me about it," Nia said.
"She said it was for college.
She made me promise not to spend it on anything else."
I folded the letter carefully and put it in my jacket pocket.
Then I turned to Vanessa.
"Where is the box?"
"Marcus, this is not the place—"
"Where is the box, Vanessa?"
Her chin lifted.
"I don't know where it is.
Things get moved when you reorganize a house.
I'm not responsible for keeping track of every item from your previous marriage."
"It was in the closet in my office.
I put it there myself.
I never moved it."
"Then maybe you misremember."
Nia made a sound — not quite a word, not quite a cry.
I put my hand on her shoulder without looking away from Vanessa.
"And the savings account?" I asked.
Something shifted in Vanessa's face.
Just for a second.
A tightening around the eyes.
"I don't know anything about a savings account."
"Diane's letter has the account number." I touched my jacket pocket.
"I'll be calling the bank this afternoon."
Vanessa's arms dropped to her sides.
"You're making a scene over a twelve-year-old's misunderstanding."
"She found her mother's letter in the trash," I said.
"In our trash.
In our house."
Silence.
"How did it get there?" I asked.
Vanessa picked up two of the shopping bags from the counter.
"I think we should go home."
"Yes," I said.
"We should."
I took Nia's hand.
She was still holding the cheap canvas sneakers.
I set them back on the counter and picked up the shoebox instead — the good ones Vanessa had rejected.
"Add these," I told the cashier.
The cashier nodded quickly and didn't say a word.
Nia looked up at me.
Her eyes were still wet, but something in them had steadied.
We walked out ahead of Vanessa.
In the car, Nia sat in the back seat with the shoebox on her lap.
She didn't open it.
She just held it with both hands, like she was making sure it was real.
I called the bank from the parking lot.
The account existed.
Diane had opened it in Nia's name, with me listed as the secondary guardian.
There had been eleven thousand, two hundred dollars in it eighteen months ago.
The balance now was zero.
The last withdrawal had been made eleven months ago.
It had not been made by me.
I sat very still with the phone against my ear.
"Sir?" the bank representative said.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No," I said.
"Thank you."
I ended the call.
In the rearview mirror, Vanessa's car pulled out of the parking space behind us.
Her face was unreadable behind the windshield.
I looked at Nia in the back seat.
She was watching me.
She already knew from my face.
"Dad," she said softly.
"How much is left?"
I put the car in drive.
"We're going to fix this," I said.
It wasn't an answer.
May you like
She knew it wasn't an answer.
But she nodded anyway, and looked back down at the shoebox in her hands.
