My father had been one of its beneficiaries.
Years later, when my ex-husband and I bought the property, the sale had been structured through the same attorney my father used.
I had never known.
“Why would Dad do that?”
Martin hesitated.
“I think he wanted you to have the house.”
“Then why sell it to me?”
“Possibly because he wanted you to believe you built your life independently.”
That sounded exactly like my father.
Quiet.
Proud.
Sometimes emotionally distant.
But never cruel.
Then Martin showed me one final document.
A letter.
It had been discovered among archived records from the attorney who originally handled the trust.
It was addressed to me.
Never delivered.
My father’s handwriting was unmistakable.
Emily,
If you are reading this, then something has gone wrong between you and your mother.
My heart stopped.
I kept reading.
He wrote that years earlier he had created a separate investment account for me after becoming concerned about Evelyn’s spending.
