Part 2
Grace didn’t speak at first. She simply placed a small, locked metal box on the bed between us. The key was already in the lock.
“He made me promise not to open this until after the funeral,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. “He said if I told you while he was still alive, you would never forgive him in time.”
I stared at the box. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Open it,” I whispered.
Grace turned the key.
Inside were three things:
A faded hospital wristband with the name Grace Elizabeth Harland and a date of birth that made her sixteen.
A stack of cash envelopes, each marked with a month and year going back more than a decade.
And a single handwritten letter addressed to me, in David’s familiar handwriting.
Grace picked up the letter and held it out.
“He wrote this the night before he died,” she said. “He made me read it to you. Word for word.”
I couldn’t take the paper. My fingers refused to move.
So Grace began to read.
“My love… I have lied to you for fifteen years. Not because I stopped loving you. Because I was a coward. Grace is not a stranger I decided to help. She is my daughter.”
