Chương 5
It was easier when he was selfish.
A selfish father was simple.
A regretful father was complicated.
"I need to tell her," he said.
I looked at him.
"Tell her what?"
"The truth."
I studied his face.
"And what happens after that?"
He did not answer.
Because both of us knew.
The truth was not going to fix everything.
Sometimes the truth only showed people what they had been avoiding.
My father stood up.
I shook my head.
"No."
He stopped.
"Why?"
"Because if you tell her, she will think I forced you."
He frowned.
"That's not fair."
"No."
I looked at him.
"It isn't."
Then I picked up the cedar box.
"That's exactly the problem."
He stared at me.
"What do you mean?"
I held the box against my chest.
"I have spent years trying to make sure everyone understood I wasn't the problem."
My voice became softer.
"I'm tired of proving it."
He stood there silently.
Then he nodded.
Not because he agreed with everything.
Because he finally understood something important.
This was not about a bedroom.
It never had been.
When he left that afternoon, he paused at the doorway.
"Paige."
I looked at him.
"I am proud of you."
The words should have comforted me.
Instead, they hurt.
Because I had spent years wishing he would say them.
And now that he did, they arrived after I had already learned how to live without hearing them.
"Thank you," I said.
It was the only answer I had.
After he drove away, I closed the door and stood there alone.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
I almost ignored it.
But then I saw the name at the bottom.
Gwendolyn.
The message contained only one sentence.
"We need to talk about what your mother left behind."
I stared at the screen.
Because there was one thing she could not possibly know.
My mother had left more behind than a house.
I read the message three times before deciding whether to answer immediately.
The wording was simple.
The meaning was not.
Gwendolyn was not asking about the house.
She was asking about my mother.
And that meant she knew something I had not expected her to know.
I typed a response, deleted it, then typed another.
Every version sounded either too angry or too defensive.
Both were emotions she understood how to use against me.
So I wrote the only thing that felt honest.
"Where did you hear about that?"
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
For nearly a minute, nothing came through.
That alone told me more than the message itself.
Gwendolyn had not sent it impulsively.
She had a reason.
Finally, my phone vibrated.
"Your father told me there were papers."
I stared at the screen.
That was impossible.
My father had not told her.
Not yet.
Unless there was another conversation I did not know about.
I called him immediately.
He answered after one ring.
"Paige?"
"Did you talk to Gwendolyn?"
A pause.
Small.
But noticeable.
"About what?"
I closed my eyes.
That pause was enough.
"About my mother's documents."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"She asked me."
"When?"
"This morning."
I walked toward the window.
"Before or after you came here?"
"After."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"What did you tell her?"
"Not much."
"That is not an answer."
He sighed.
"I told her I needed to review some old paperwork."
"And she knew what paperwork?"
"She guessed."
I looked out at the hills.
The city below was beginning its evening rhythm.
Cars moving.
Lights turning on.
People coming home.
Normal life continuing while mine became more complicated.
"She knows about the agreement."
"She knows there are documents."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
My father's voice became quieter.
"It isn't."
I sat down on the edge of the couch.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought I could handle it."
The answer was painfully familiar.
My father had spent years believing problems became smaller if he carried them alone.
The problem was that he usually carried them until they became someone else's problem.
"How?"
He did not answer.
"Dad."
"I don't know."
That surprised me.
Not because he admitted uncertainty.
Because he sounded genuinely lost.
"She found something," he said.
"What?"
"I don't know."
I frowned.
"You don't know what your wife found?"
"I know how that sounds."
"It sounds impossible."
He rubbed his face, even though I could not see him.
"After you left, she went through some boxes in the garage."
My stomach tightened.
"The garage?"
"Your mother's old things were still there."
I stood up.
"What boxes?"
"Paige."
"What boxes?"
He hesitated.
"The ones from when we cleaned out the attic."
My hand gripped the phone tighter.
There was a reason my mother kept things.
She was not sentimental about everything.
She was practical.
Every receipt, every note, every important document had a place.
If something was still stored after all these years, there was a reason.
"Did she open my mother's boxes?"
"I think so."
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I suddenly felt exhausted.
"She thinks I left because of a bedroom."
My father stayed quiet.
"She has no idea."
"No."
His voice sounded heavy.
"She doesn't."
I ended the call and stood in the middle of my living room.
The house suddenly felt less peaceful.
Not because anything had changed.
Because something from the past had finally entered the room.
The next morning, I drove back to my father's house.
I told myself I was going because I needed answers.
That was only partly true.
A smaller part of me wanted to see if my old home still felt like home.
When I parked outside, I noticed the front garden looked different.
The flowers my mother planted years ago were gone.
Replaced with something more modern.
Cleaner.
Less personal.
That should not have bothered me.
May you like
But it did.
A person could survive losing a house.
