Not because I was angry with my mother.
Because suddenly I understood her.
The next morning, I called the storage facility.
The manager confirmed that several boxes connected to Estelle were still there.
I drove there after work.
The unit smelled of dust and old cardboard.
There were shelves along the walls.
An old sewing machine.
Three lamps.
Boxes of Christmas decorations.
I searched for hours.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the quilt.
I looked underneath the sewing machine.
There was a narrow cardboard box.
Inside were photographs, receipts, letters, and a sealed envelope.
My mother’s handwriting was on the front.
Martha.
I sat down on the floor.
My hands were trembling when I opened it.
The letter was dated seventeen years earlier.
My daughter,
If you are reading this, I am probably no longer able to explain these things to you myself.
There are things about your father’s financial life that I never understood completely. I discovered enough to know that he was hiding money and signing documents without telling me.
I tried to protect you from it because you were young and because I believed I could fix it.
I was wrong about the second part.
But I want you to understand something.
