It seemed like he was going full scorched earth. He was going after everything. I wondered where my mom’s favourite green coat was when I rushed toward him. He stepped back and threw the dress into the fire.
Behind me, the back door opened.
My mother stood on the porch.
Her hands were trembling. I turned to her and said, “Mom, say something.”
She looked at the fire. Then at him.
The next morning a package arrived addressed to my mother.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s okay.”
That night I tore through the house looking for the recorder I had given her. I checked drawers, closets, the garage, even the old sewing cabinet.
Nothing.
I barely slept.
The next morning a package arrived addressed to my mother.
He grabbed his phone and dialed my mother with shaking fingers.
My father opened it anyway.
He was at the kitchen counter when I walked in. He pulled out a stack of papers, then froze. The color drained out of his face.
“What the…”
I stepped closer. He tried to shut the box, but I had already seen a recorder. Papers. An envelope.
He grabbed his phone and dialed my mother with shaking fingers.
When she answered, his voice came out wrecked.
I had never heard that tone from him.
“Carol. Please.”
I had never heard that tone from him.
He swallowed hard. “Don’t send this to the firm. Don’t send it to the lawyer. I’ll fix everything.”
That made it click. He wasn’t afraid of being embarrassed. He was afraid of consequences.
He listened for a second. “Carol, please.”
She hung up.
Then my mother walked in through the front door.
I said, “What’s in the box?”
He snapped, “Nothing you need to see.”
Then my mother walked in through the front door.
He turned on her. “You are out of your mind!”
She set her keys down. “Am I?”
“What do you want?”
She looked at him for a while before saying, “For you to understand the difference between being quiet and being helpless.”
Inside the box was the recorder I had given her years ago.
Then she turned to me.
“You should see it.”
Inside the box was the recorder I had given her years ago.
A little paper tag was tied to it in her handwriting.
Plan B.
“You kept it?”
I picked up one transcript.
“Of course I did.”
Under it were more recorders, labeled by year. And transcripts. The worst parts highlighted.
My father made a sharp sound in the back of his throat. “Those are private.”
My mother didn’t even look at him. “The originals are with my lawyer. These are copies.”
That explained his panic.
I picked up one transcript.
I wish I hadn’t.
Then I found the letter.
