“What is this, Evelyn?”
My son leaned closer while Michael lifted the lid.
Michael’s mother lowered her wineglass.
“Those are bank statements,” I said calmly. “Sixty-three thousand in debt. Loans Clara discovered two months before she died.”
The color disappeared from Michael’s face.
“Then explain the note,” I said, pushing Clara’s folded letter toward him. “Read it out loud, Michael. Read what my sister wrote about you.”
He could not do it.
His mother seized the letter and began reading it herself.
Her voice broke when she reached the words: ‘He wanted caretakers, not partners.’
“Evelyn, please,” Michael whispered. “I loved her. I love you.”
“It’s what Clara would have wanted!” he burst out. “She would have wanted someone to take care of me.”
Silence filled the dining room.
His brother shoved his chair away from the table.
“She warned you not to marry him,” my daughter said quietly. “In writing. Two days before she died.”
