She told me she had discovered something about the Calloway family finances that she did not understand. She said her husband had been moving money between accounts and that she was afraid someone would discover what he had done and blame her.
My hands started shaking.
My father.
For seventeen years, I had believed my parents’ marriage was ordinary.
Not perfect.
But ordinary.
My father handled the money.
My mother trusted him.
Just as I had trusted Daniel.
I continued reading.
Estelle wrote that my mother had left a packet with her.
Copies of bank statements.
Loan records.
Property documents.
Letters.
My mother believed my father had been hiding debts and moving money without telling her.
Then came a sentence that made me put the notebook down.
Margaret said she was worried that one day her daughter would trust the wrong man because she had learned from her mother that love meant letting someone else carry the difficult things.
I stared at those words for a long time.
My mother had been talking about me.
Before Daniel.
Before the divorce.
Before I understood anything.
She had been afraid I would repeat her mistake.
And I had.
I closed the notebook and cried.
