Her fingers closed around the photograph.
“Now
I have proof of something else. I had a mother. She had a history. She may have had people who tried to help her. And whatever this is, I will not let anyone hide it from me again.”
No one moved.
Then I reached for the stack of envelopes.
“This all gets copied today,” I said. “Every page. Every photograph. Every folder.”
Samuel nodded. “I’ll supervise.”
Margaret stepped toward the cabinet. “Those papers belong to this family.”
Emma looked at her. “Then I belong in the room while they are read.”
My mother’s mouth opened.
No words came.
That silence felt like the first honest thing she had given us.
The auditors set up at the long library table. Samuel photographed every document before removing it from the cabinet. The process was slow, deliberate, and tense. Each folder opened like another door into a house none of us knew we
