“Your grandparents.”
“Your childhood.”
“Her own memories.”
“She thought one day she would organize them for you.”
“When the headaches started, she asked me to keep copies.”
“Then she died.”
My throat closed.
“And you just disappeared with them?”
Evelyn’s face crumpled.
“No.”
“After the funeral, your father and I fought.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“Grief.”
“Money.”
“Your grandmother.”
“Your mother had left instructions that some things come directly to you when you were older.”
“Your father thought I was interfering.”
“I thought he was erasing your mother’s side of the family.”
“We both behaved badly.”
“That still doesn’t explain eighteen years.”
She looked down.
“No.”
“It doesn’t.”
I waited.
Evelyn said:
“I left because staying meant continuing the fight.”
“That is an explanation for leaving Bellmere.”
“Not for never calling me.”
Her eyes filled.
“You’re right.”
“I wrote.”
“Where?”
“To your father.”
I almost laughed.
