Clara went very still.
“What instructions?” I asked.
Mother looked from Clara to me.
“When he died, I found this inside his desk.”
She lifted a sealed envelope from the box.
My name was written across it in my father’s unmistakable handwriting.
BENNETT.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
When you are ready to know the whole family.
I stared at it.
Mother’s voice trembled.
“I told myself you weren’t ready.”
She placed the envelope in my hand.
“Then I told myself you were grieving.”
Her eyes filled.
“Then I told myself too much time had passed.”
I looked at the sealed edge.
It had never been opened.
For twelve years, my father’s final explanation had been sitting in the same house where I slept.
Waiting.
Mother reached for my hand.
“I was wrong.”
I looked at Clara.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t know about this.”
