Chapter 5: The Letter Diane Wrote
The letter was two pages, written in a careful, even hand on plain paper.
Miranda had found it folded inside the back cover of a manila envelope she'd never opened — one our father had given her during the divorce, telling her it contained copies of documents she might need later.
She had put it away without looking inside.
She'd been too exhausted to look at anything that year.
I read the letter twice before I spoke.
Diane had written it to our father.
But she had sent a copy to our mother.
The address at the top was our childhood home.
The letter said she was done waiting.
It said she had been patient for thirty years.
That she had accepted the money quietly and asked for nothing publicly.
That she had never contacted us, never shown up at family events, never made demands beyond what he had promised her when she was twenty-two years old and he had first appeared at her door.
But she had found out, she wrote, about the inheritance.
My grandmother's inheritance.
She had found out because she had her own relationship with my grandmother — a relationship none of us had known about.
My grandmother, it turned out, had known about Diane for years.
Had known and had chosen, quietly, to include her.
Diane's share had been $25,000.
Left separately, in a different account, handled by a different solicitor.
My father had intercepted it.
He had told the solicitor that Diane had agreed to waive her claim in exchange for a private arrangement already in place.
He had provided a signed document.
Diane had never signed any document.
The letter said she had contacted a solicitor of her own.
That she intended to pursue the matter.
That she was giving him one final opportunity to make it right before she did.
The letter was dated eleven years ago.
Miranda and I looked at each other across the table.
"She wrote this eleven years ago," Miranda said.
"And nothing happened," I said.
"Which means he found a way to stop her."
"Or pay her off again."
"Or something else."
I turned the letter over.
On the back of the second page, in different ink, in handwriting I didn't recognize, were four words.
*He threatened the child.*
No signature.
No date.
Just those four words, written as if someone had picked up the letter and needed to record something before they lost the nerve.
Miranda's face had gone pale.
"What child?" she said.
I didn't know.
Diane had no children mentioned in the letter.
There was no other reference to a child anywhere in the documents we had.
But someone had written those words on the back of that letter and put it in an envelope addressed to Miranda.
Someone had wanted her to find it.
"Who gave you this envelope?" I asked.
Miranda thought.
"Dad handed it to me directly.
The day I signed the final settlement papers.
He said it was copies of everything for my records."
"But the letter is addressed to him.
And to Mum."
"I know."
"Which means someone took it from the house and put it in that envelope before he gave it to you."
Miranda was quiet for a long moment.
"Mum," she said.
I sat back.
Our mother, who had folded her hands and lifted her chin and stepped aside when I arrived at the house.
Our mother, who had said it was enough for today.
Our mother, who had stood at the door and not spoken when I left.
Our mother, who had known about Diane for at least eleven years and possibly much longer.
And who had, at some point, slipped a letter into an envelope and handed it to her daughter to find when she was ready.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice.
Quiet, careful, like someone who had rehearsed what they were going to say and was still not sure they would get through it.
"Is this Joanna?"
"Yes."
May you like
"My name is Diane," she said.
"I think it's time we talked."
