On Father’s Day my millionaire son walked into my freezing apartment, saw the tinned soup on the table, and asked how I was managing on the eight thousand a month his wife sends me. I told him nobody sends me anything.

The envelope was dated 2016.

I held it in my hand.

Thea sat opposite me.

Emmett had gone home.

I looked at the window.

Marianne Vale.

Dunstan Vale.

I ran my finger underneath her name.

Then I opened it.

There was a statement.

There was nothing dramatic.

No secret.

No scandal.

No hidden fortune.

Just numbers.

A balance.

A transaction.

A routine notice.

And beneath that was a small handwritten card from a woman at the Fullerton branch.

She had known Marianne for eleven years.

Four handwritten lines.

She said she remembered Marianne coming into the branch every December.

She said Marianne always brought peppermint sweets for the staff.

I had forgotten that.

I had completely forgotten.

I read the card twice.

Then a third time.

And I cried.

Not loudly.

I simply sat there.

Thea was still across from me.

She didn’t say anything.

After a while she reached across the table.

She put her hand over mine.

I let her.

That was the beginning.

For eleven days, we opened the boxes.

All four.

One envelope at a time.

Some contained statements.

Some contained notices.

Some contained things I had forgotten entirely.

There were four letters about a dormant arrangement.