Two weeks later, I received three letters.
Laura’s came first.
It was four pages of explanation.
Work had been stressful.
The kids had schedules.
Holidays were complicated.
Grief had been hard for everyone.
She wrote many words without once writing sorry.
I put it in a drawer.
Michael’s came second.
It was one page.
He said I had embarrassed the family.
He said Richard would never have wanted this.
He said I was being manipulated.
I put that one in the trash.
Fiona’s came last.
It was written on plain notebook paper.
The handwriting shook.
Dear Mom, it began.
I remember you cutting my toast into triangles because I said squares tasted wrong.
I remember Dad pretending not to notice when you slipped me twenty dollars before school trips.
I remember you staying up all night sewing my angel costume for the church pageant because I forgot to tell you until the night before.
I remember you.
Then she wrote the sentence that made me sit down.
I am ashamed that I remembered the inheritance more clearly than I remembered the mother.
I read that line three times.
Then I cried.
Not because it fixed anything.
It did not.
