Chương 7
“What did they say?”
“I didn’t read all of them.”
“But you read some.”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
Sloan was quiet for so long that I thought she had hung up.
Then she whispered,
“He said he was sorry.”
My stomach tightened.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“No, Thane.”
Her voice became emotional.
“I know enough to understand that Mom lied.”
I looked at the ceiling.
The anger inside me shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
Because Sloan was not the person I thought she was either.
She was not innocent.
But she was not my mother.
“What did you do with the letters?”
“I put them back.”
“Did Mom know you saw them?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because the next day she asked me if I had been looking through her things.”
“And?”
“I lied.”
The admission came quietly.
“I said no.”
I sat down at the kitchen table.
The same table where my mother had once helped me with homework.
The same table where Sloan had spilled grape juice during Thanksgiving and cried because she thought everyone was angry.
Funny how memories worked.
They did not disappear when someone hurt you.
They just became complicated.
“Why did you help her last night?” I asked.
Sloan started crying.
“I thought if I helped her, she would finally tell me the truth.”
I looked at the floor.
“You broke into my house because you wanted answers?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
She sounded ashamed.
“I know.”
That was the first thing she had said that sounded like my sister.
Not an excuse.
Not a defense.
Just a confession.
“What does Mom have on you?”
She stopped crying.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Nothing.”
“Sloan.”
Silence.
Then she said,
“She helped me.”
“With what?”
“My debt.”
I leaned back.
There it was.
The thing my mother always understood.
Everyone had a weakness.
Everyone had something they needed.
“Sloan.”
“I made mistakes.”
“What kind?”
She did not answer.
“Tell me.”
“I had a gambling problem.”
I looked at the wall.
The confession did not shock me as much as it should have.
Not because I knew.
Because suddenly many things made sense.
The new car she could not afford.
The constant requests for money.
The way she avoided conversations about her finances.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That is not a number.”
“Almost forty thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Mom paid it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she said I owed her.”
There it was.
My mother’s favorite kind of relationship.
Not love.
Debt.
“What did she ask you to do?”
Sloan started crying again.
“She said she needed help getting something back from you.”
“Back?”
“She said Dad left something with you.”
I stood up.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You broke into my house and attacked my wife because you thought my father left something with me?”
“I didn’t attack her.”
The words came too quickly.
I went silent.
Sloan realized what she had done.
“I mean…”
“No.”
My voice was quiet.
“You don’t get to correct the wording.”
She swallowed.
“I know.”
The truth was ugly.
But at least it was finally arriving without someone trying to polish it first.
“What was Dad hiding?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
She paused.
“But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“Mom was scared when she found out you came home early.”
I frowned.
“She was scared?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she thought you had found it.”
“Found what?”
Sloan breathed in.
Then she said,
“The account.”
The word meant nothing.
But the way she said it meant everything.
“What account?”
“I don’t know.”
Another half-truth.
I was tired of them.
“Sloan.”
“I swear.”
Her voice became desperate.
“I don’t know what was in it.”
“Then what do you know?”
A long pause.
Then she answered.
“Dad had money before he died.”
“I know he worked.”
“No.”
She whispered.
“Not from work.”
I looked toward the stairs where Alora was resting.
The person I loved most was upstairs because my family had brought danger into our home.
And somehow I was still learning new reasons why.
“What are you telling me?”
Sloan’s voice dropped.
“I’m telling you Mom wasn’t protecting you from Dad.”
The room went completely silent.
“She was protecting you from what Dad knew.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What did he know?”
Sloan hesitated.
Then she said,
“I think he knew Mom had been lying about where his money came from.”
I felt something settle inside me.
Not an answer.
A direction.
For twenty years, I had searched for a reason my father disappeared.
Now I was starting to understand that maybe the real question was not why he left.
Maybe the real question was what he was trying to escape.
Maybe the real question was what he was trying to escape.
I sat there after the call ended, unable to move.
The phone screen went dark in my hand, but Sloan’s words remained.
She had not given me the truth.
Not completely.
But she had given me something my mother never had.
A reason to look.
I walked upstairs slowly.
Every step felt heavier than the one before.
When I reached the bedroom, Alora was awake.
She was sitting against the pillows with a glass of water beside her.
“You talked to her.”
I nodded.
“Sloan.”
She watched my face carefully.
“What did you learn?”
I closed the door behind me.
“My father had money before he died.”
Alora waited.
“Not from his job.”
Her expression changed.
“What kind of money?”
“I don’t know.”
I sat beside her.
“My family has spent twenty years hiding something.”
Alora looked toward the window.
“Do you think your mother hurt him?”
The question was so direct that it almost felt impossible to answer.
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to say those words without feeling weak.
May you like
I did not know.
I did not know who my father really was.
