The phone cord stretched taut as I reached behind Rick’s prized ficus plant to dust the windowsill. My daughter Angel was on the line from Portland, gently suggesting—again—that I consider seeing a therapist about feeling lost in my own life. “Your father thinks therapy is just an excuse for people who can’t handle their problems,” I said, the familiar script falling from my lips before I could stop it.
“Mom, who cares what Dad thinks?” Angel’s voice sharpened with concern. “This is about what you need.”
The radical notion that my needs might actually matter made me laugh—a bitter, hollow sound that surprised us both. As I turned to respond, my elbow caught the ceramic pot.
Time slowed. I watched twenty-three years of careful obedience shatter against the hardwood floor. The ficus lay exposed and vulnerable, dark soil spreading across the wood like spilled secrets.
“I have to call you back,” I whispered, hanging up before Angel could reply. That’s when I saw them, nestled in the earth like buried treasure: a brass safety deposit box key with an unfamiliar bank logo, a micro SD card carefully wrapped in plastic, and a folded photocopy that made my blood turn to ice. My father’s handwriting.
The same careful script from childhood birthday cards and the final letter he’d sent before dying three years ago. Dated two months before his death, it was addressed to Rick: “I’m writing to confirm our discussion about Eileen’s inheritance and the foundation we discussed establishing in my name.”
I read it three times before the words penetrated. My father—who had spent his final months worrying about leaving me financially secure—had apparently left a substantial sum to establish a charitable foundation for cancer research.
Rick was to be the executor, but the foundation was to be in my name as my father’s only child. I had never heard a single word about any of this. The letter detailed account numbers, legal documents, and timelines.
It mentioned meetings with lawyers and Rick’s assurance that he would “handle everything so Eileen wouldn’t be burdened during her grief.”
Where was the money? Where was the foundation? And why had Rick hidden this letter like contraband?
I wasn’t just heartbroken. I was enraged—a feeling I hadn’t allowed myself in years. With shaking hands, I inserted the micro SD card into my laptop.
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