Chapter 5
I ran downstairs before I could stop myself.
“They took Mom’s letters.”
Dad was still standing by the front window. Vanessa’s car had already disappeared around the corner.
“What letters?”
“The ones she wrote when she was sick. They were in my desk.”
His face changed. He knew exactly which ones I meant.
Mom had written them during the final months of her life. One for my tenth birthday. One for the first day of high school. One for graduation.
Dad gave me each letter when the day came. I kept them together in a blue folder, along with the few photographs I had of us before she died.
We called Vanessa. She didn’t answer.
Dad left a message asking her to return the folder that day. Then we checked every drawer in my room, the closet, and the kitchen, though I knew where I had left it.
I felt foolish for crying over paper when my scholarship was finally safe. Aunt Renee must have seen it on my face.
“Those are your mother’s words,” she said. “Of course they matter.”
That evening, Mia sent me a photograph.
My folder was on the back seat of Vanessa’s car. Beneath the picture was a message: Tell Dad to stop making us homeless, and you can have it back.
I showed him.
His jaw tightened. “They’re at Vanessa’s sister’s house. I’ll go get it.”
“No. She wants you to come alone so she can argue with you.”
“Then we’ll bring Renee.”
Aunt Renee called a friend who worked at a community legal clinic. He advised Dad to keep the messages and arrange an exchange in a public place. He also reminded Dad that forcing Vanessa out permanently would require them to handle the house and marriage properly.
Dad listened. He didn’t pretend that telling them to pack had settled everything.
He texted Vanessa: Return Aaliyah’s folder tomorrow at the community center. We can discuss the rest separately.
She answered within a minute.
Come alone.
Dad showed us the message. “No.”
The next day, we arrived together. Vanessa stood beside her car. Mia was inside it, staring through the windshield.
Vanessa held the blue folder against her chest.
“You embarrassed my daughter at her own home,” she told Dad.
Dad stopped several feet away. “Give Aaliyah her letters.”
“And what happens to us?”
“I’ll speak with you about the house through the appropriate channels.”
“You married me. You can’t simply erase us.”
“I know. We’ll deal with that. The letters have nothing to do with it.”
Vanessa’s fingers tightened on the folder.
I stepped forward. “Why did you take them?”
“Mia picked up the wrong folder.”
“She sent me a picture demanding something in exchange.”
Vanessa glanced at the car. Mia looked away.
“I didn’t know about that,” Vanessa said.
Maybe she was telling the truth. I couldn’t tell anymore.
I held out my hand. “Please.”
For one awful second, Vanessa didn’t move. Then she gave it to me.
I opened it before we left. The photos were there. The birthday letters were there.
The graduation letter was missing.
“It was inside,” I said.
Vanessa shook her head. “That’s everything Mia took.”
I looked toward the car. Mia’s face had gone pale.
Dad walked to her window. She lowered it only a few inches.
“Where is the letter?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Aaliyah’s mother wrote it for her. Give it back.”
Mia stared at her lap. “I can’t.”
Vanessa came up behind him. “What does that mean?”
Mia’s voice cracked. “I threw it away.”
I felt the pavement tilt beneath me.
“You read it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“You threw away the letter my mom wrote for my graduation?”
“You had a whole folder.”
I wanted to shout. I wanted to ask her what part of my life she thought she could keep tearing up before someone finally stopped her.
Instead, I went silent.
Dad took a step back from the car.
“Was it at the house?” he asked.
Mia nodded. “In the kitchen trash. Yesterday.”
Aunt Renee touched my shoulder. “Trash pickup was this morning.”
I clutched the folder to my chest. The graduation letter had been there for eleven years. Mom had written it knowing she would never see me cross that stage.
We drove home without speaking.
Dad checked the empty trash cans anyway. I stood on the porch and watched him lift each lid, although I knew what he would find.
Inside, I opened the other letters. In one, Mom had written about the first time I learned to ride a bike. In another, she told me that courage sometimes looked like asking for help.
I pressed my thumb to the handwriting.
Dad came in and sat beside me.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I shook my head because if I tried to answer, I would start crying and never stop.
He waited.
Finally I asked, “Did Mom keep copies?”
“I don’t know. She gave me sealed envelopes.”
“Maybe there were drafts.”
“Maybe.” His voice was gentle. “We’ll look.”
I nodded, though hope frightened me.
Late that night, I received an email from an address I didn’t recognize.
The subject was my mother’s name: Camille.
May you like
Inside was a single sentence.
Ask David what happened to the box in the attic.
