Chapter 6: The Secret Hidden in My Mother's Journal
“Where is the original evidence?”” I asked.
Dr. Hayes glanced toward the crowded hall.
“I was hoping your father could answer that question.””
I folded the letter carefully.
“Why didn't the academy contact me before?””
“We tried to reach your family several times. Eleanor's complaint was placed under restricted review after her death. The confidentiality agreement complicated matters, and some records were never properly reconciled.””
“Can the competition continue?””
“Your entry can proceed while the ownership question is investigated. But I cannot promise the scholarship will be awarded tonight.””
I nodded, although disappointment settled in my stomach.
I'd imagined winning the scholarship. I'd imagined calling my mother's name when they announced the result.
Now even entering the competition felt like walking through a room full of broken glass.
Dr. Hayes touched my shoulder.
“Your work deserves to be judged on its own merits, Emily. Don't forget that.””
I went backstage.
The other contestants were checking their hems, adjusting their hair, and practicing their runway walks in front of a tall mirror. A girl in a gold dress smiled at me.
“I'm Sophie. Your gown is incredible.””
“Thank you. I'm Emily.””
“I saw it hanging backstage. Did you really make it yourself?””
“Every stitch.””
She examined the crimson embroidery.
“That's amazing. It looks like the roses are growing out of the fabric.””
I felt myself smile.
“My mother taught me how to sew.””
“Then she must have been talented.””
“She was.””
For a few seconds, the competition felt like what I'd hoped it would be: a room full of people who understood why making something with your hands could matter so much.
Then Vanessa walked in.
She carried a garment bag and wore the expression of someone arriving at a party she believed she owned.
“Move,” she told Sophie, nudging past her toward the mirror.
Sophie stepped aside.
Vanessa examined her reflection, adjusted the neckline of her gown, and glanced at me.
“You know what your problem is, Emily? You think talent is enough.””
I kept my eyes on the small sewing kit in my hands.
“And you think money can buy everything.””
Her smile vanished.
“My mother spent five thousand dollars on this dress.””
“Then I hope it fits well.””
Sophie covered a laugh with her hand.
Vanessa spun toward her.
“Something funny?””
“No,” Sophie replied.
“I was just checking my lipstick.””
Vanessa looked ready to argue, but an assistant called the contestants into position.
The first group walked onto the runway.
Applause rolled through the hall. Cameras flashed. Judges scribbled notes.
I watched from the wings, trying to slow my breathing.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Dad.
Please meet me in the archive corridor. I found something.
I hurried out through a side door and found him standing beside a row of framed photographs documenting the academy's history.
He looked exhausted.
“What happened?”” I asked.
Dad held up his phone.
“I called an old attorney who handled the original contract. He remembers your mother's case.””
“And?””
“He said the company wanted ownership of the designs, but your mother never agreed to the final transfer. The confidentiality agreement was supposed to suspend the dispute while the parties negotiated.””
“Then why did you sign it?””
Dad looked away.
“Because the company threatened to pursue a lawsuit that could have taken our home. Your mother was ill, and I thought the agreement would give us time.””
“But it didn't protect her work.””
“No.”” His voice cracked.
“It didn't.””
I wanted to shout at him. I wanted to ask why he'd let my mother die believing her life's work might be lost forever.
Instead, I whispered, “What did Mom hide?””
Dad reached into his jacket and removed a small brass key.
“She gave me this shortly before she died. She asked me to keep it somewhere safe until you were old enough to understand.””
I stared at him.
“You've had that all this time?””
He nodded.
“I was afraid of reopening the case. I told myself I was protecting you from another legal fight. But I was also protecting myself from admitting how badly I'd failed her.””
My eyes burned.
“Where does it go?””
“The storage cabinet in the academy's old design archive. Your mother rented a secure drawer there before she died.””
I looked at the key.
“Why didn't you tell me sooner?””
“Because I was a coward.””
The honesty in his voice hurt more than an excuse would have.
I took the key.
“Then let's find out what she left.””
We hurried toward the archive, where Dr. Hayes met us beside a locked cabinet. She checked the number stamped on the key, then opened the drawer.
Inside lay a flat portfolio wrapped in brown paper, a small velvet box, and a sealed envelope bearing my name.
My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope.
My dearest Emily,
If you're reading this, you are old enough to understand that talent is only one part of a dream. You must also protect your work, your name, and your right to decide what happens to what you create.
I pressed the letter against my lips.
The next paragraph made my breath catch.
The red rose collection belongs to you if you choose to continue it. I designed it with you in mind, because you always said you wanted to make clothes that helped people feel brave.
I opened the portfolio.
Inside were the missing sketches from my mother's journal, accompanied by dated photographs and signed registration documents.
Dr. Hayes examined them carefully.
“These could be significant evidence,” she said.
“They establish that Eleanor documented these designs long before the current applications.””
Dad closed his eyes.
“Thank God.””
But the velvet box remained unopened.
I lifted the lid.
Inside was a tiny silver thimble, polished smooth, with the initials E.M. engraved on one side and a second set of initials on the other.
P.M.
I looked at Patricia's initials on the engraving.
“Why would Mom have something belonging to Patricia?””
Dad stared at the thimble.
“I don't know.””
Dr. Hayes turned the box over.
A folded slip of paper had been tucked beneath the velvet lining.
She carefully unfolded it.
There were only two sentences.
Patricia was present when the original agreement was signed.
Ask her who received the money.
My heart began pounding.
Dad took the note from Dr. Hayes.
“Money?”” he whispered.
Before anyone could respond, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Patricia appeared in the doorway.
Her eyes moved from the open cabinet to the portfolio in my hands.
Then she saw the note.
For a moment, her face became completely expressionless.
“You weren't supposed to find that,” she said.
Dad stepped forward.
“What money, Patricia?””
She looked at him, then at me.
“You have no idea what your mother was capable of.””
I held the portfolio tighter.
“Then tell us.””
Patricia's gaze dropped to the silver thimble.
And suddenly, I saw her fear turn into something much worse.
Recognition.
She backed away.
“No,” she whispered.
“That can't still exist.””
Dr. Hayes moved toward her.
“Mrs. Miller, what exactly are you referring to?””
Patricia turned and ran.
Dad started after her, but I caught his arm.
Because the portfolio had slipped open in my hands, revealing one final document beneath the sketches.
It was a bank transfer record dated three weeks before my mother's death.
The recipient's name was clearly printed.
*Patricia Miller.*
May you like
And beside the amount was a figure that made my stomach turn.
*$250,000.*
