Chapter 3

I tucked Mom's photo inside my jacket, grabbed my ID, and walked out the door.

Linda looked up and nudged Dad.

"Don't stay angry at the kid. She lost her mother young — it makes a person difficult. That's all."

"Rachel, come eat with us. The food's getting cold."

I looked at the picked-over dishes on the table — the scraps and bones that remained — and gave her a smile that said everything.

"What exactly am I supposed to eat?"

Dad was already at the sideboard, arranging his whiskey glasses, satisfied and full.

"There's plenty left. Ungrateful to your core. And when you're done eating, wash the dishes and wipe down the table."

I turned and walked out.

Behind me, Dad's voice rose.

"She's completely out of control. If she's got so much nerve, she can walk out that door and never come back."

Then Linda's voice, measured and smooth.

"Where do you think she's going? Maybe follow her, just in case. Kids this age can be so fragile. If she does something rash — "

"Good riddance. She's an adult. I don't owe her a thing."

I walked faster until their voices fell away entirely.

The bank branch was fifteen minutes on foot.

The teller who received me was cheerful and professional.

She laid it out clearly: the principal was eight hundred thousand dollars. Ten years of compounding interest added approximately one hundred and twenty-eight thousand. My account — the one ending in 1234 — currently held nine hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars.

I stood at the window and couldn't speak.

She slid a sealed envelope across the counter.

"Ms. Susan Holt stored this with us ten years ago. She asked that it be given to you when the account matured."

My hands were shaking.

Inside: a letter, a key, and a property deed.

I unfolded the letter. The paper had gone soft and yellow at the edges.

*To my Rachel at eighteen — are you doing okay?*

*I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to watch you grow up.*

*Before I go, you are the only thing I cannot let go of.*

*The money in this account, and the apartment that goes with this deed — these are your eighteenth birthday gifts from me.*

*If life has been kind to you, then this is just something extra, a little more sunshine. If life has been hard — don't be afraid. I'm still here, standing behind you.*

*About your father — I think you already know. I won't say more.*

*Loving you always,*

*Mom*

*2016*

Those few short lines. I read them again and again until the paper was wet.

She knew. She had always known about Dad and Linda.

Ten years later, standing in this bank, I finally understood the grief that never left her face. Why she refused to tell Dad what she had saved. Why, with the last strength she had, she spat at the man holding her hand.

She had known everything.

And she had spent the time she had left making sure I would be alright.

I folded the letter and pressed it inside my jacket, next to her photo.

I stared at the balance on the screen. Nine hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars.

I thought about Dad — the way he'd turned the house upside down after the funeral looking for anything she might have left. How he'd found nothing and decided she must have hidden it from him out of spite. How he'd convinced himself she was reckless with money, or worse.

How he'd punished me for it for ten years.

The healed-over burn blisters on my arm itched. I pressed my fingernails against them.

Then I made a fist.

This money was hers, and she gave it to me. No one was going to touch it.