Chapter 2: The Envelope
The hallway felt colder than the kitchen.
I walked toward the old desk slowly, aware that Tasha was following me.
“Don't go through our things,” she said.
I kept walking.
“Malcolm told me to.””
“He's not here.””
“He doesn't have to be.””
I opened the top drawer.
Receipts.
Old batteries.
Pens.
A broken tape measure.
Nothing else.
The second drawer held tax papers and warranty cards.
I pulled it open farther.
Empty.
Tasha crossed her arms.
“Happy?””
I looked at the bottom drawer.
It was locked.
I turned toward her.
“Where's the key?””
She laughed once.
“Why would I know?””
“Because you just told me not to open it.””
Her smile disappeared.
“I said don't go through my husband’s desk.””
I pulled out my phone.
“Malcolm?””
Tasha stepped forward.
“Don't call him again.””
That told me everything I needed to know.
I called anyway.
He answered immediately.
“Mom?””
“The bottom drawer is locked.””
“I know.””
“Where's the key?””
“Behind the family picture.””
I looked at the framed photograph hanging above the desk.
It showed Malcolm, Tasha, Jordan, Ava, and Isaiah.
Except Isaiah stood slightly apart from everyone else.
I lifted the frame.
A small brass key was taped to the back.
Tasha went pale.
“Malcolm shouldn't have told you that.””
I inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a thick cream-colored envelope.
Isaiah’s name was written across the front.
Not printed.
Written by hand.
The letters were slightly uneven.
I recognized them from the sympathy cards Isaiah’s mother had sent me before she died.
*For Isaiah.*
My fingers trembled.
I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
I read the first line.
If you're reading this, my son is old enough to know what I wanted for him.
I stopped breathing.
Tasha moved closer.
“What does it say?””
I kept reading.
Isaiah’s mother, Emily, explained that she had been saving money for him since he was three.
Not birthday money.
Not Christmas money.
Real savings.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
Every bonus.
Every tax refund.
Every extra shift she had worked before cancer took away her strength.
She had created the account specifically for Isaiah’s education.
At the bottom of the letter was a sentence underlined twice.
No one has permission to use this money for another child.
I looked up.
Tasha said nothing.
I pulled out the bank statements beneath the letter.
The first page showed a balance of $48,214.09.
The next showed $42,880.
Then $36,500.
Then $28,000.
Then $19,700.
Then $9,412.
The final statement showed:
*$16.82*
I stared at the number.
Sixteen dollars and eighty-two cents.
My voice barely came out.
“Where did the rest go?””
Tasha leaned against the doorway.
“You're assuming it was stolen.””
“I’m looking at withdrawals.””
“They were family expenses.””
“Emily specifically said the money was for Isaiah.””
“Emily isn't here anymore.””
The words landed like a slap.
I slowly looked at her.
“Say that again.””
Tasha straightened.
“You heard me.””
Behind us, a floorboard creaked.
Isaiah stood at the end of the hallway.
He had heard everything.
His face was pale.
“Grandma?””
I immediately folded the letter.
“Go back to the kitchen, sweetheart.””
“Was that Mom's letter?””
I froze.
Tasha answered first.
“No.””
Isaiah looked at her.
“Then why does it have her handwriting?””
Tasha's jaw tightened.
“Go sit down.””
Isaiah didn't move.
“Did my mom leave me money?””
Nobody spoke.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Dad told me Mom wanted me to go to college.””
I crouched in front of him.
“She did.””
“Is it gone?””
I couldn't lie.
“Most of it.””
His lower lip trembled.
“What did they buy?””
Tasha snapped, “Enough.””
Isaiah flinched.
I stood.
“Don't speak to him like that.””
Tasha pointed toward the kitchen.
“This is my house.””
“And that is his mother's money.””
Her eyes hardened.
“You don't know what you're talking about.””
I held up the bank statements.
“Then explain these.””
She stared at the pages.
“Ask Malcolm.””
“I will.””
“You should ask him who signed every withdrawal.””
My stomach dropped.
“What?””
Tasha walked toward me.
“You think I emptied that account?””
“I didn't say that.””
“You didn't have to.””
She tapped the statements with one finger.
“Look at the signatures.””
I turned the pages.
Each withdrawal had a signature beside it.
The handwriting looked familiar.
Very familiar.
I knew that handwriting.
I had seen it on birthday cards.
On Christmas checks.
On the mortgage documents Malcolm once asked me to witness.
May you like
My hands went cold.
Because the signature on every withdrawal looked exactly like my son’s.
