The discovery did not erase what had happened.
But it complicated the story I had been telling myself.
That evening, I called Rebecca.
“Can you come over?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, she arrived carrying two coffees.
“I didn’t know what you drink here.”
“The same thing I drank there.”
“I know. That sounded stupid.”
She sat on my sofa.
I handed her the printed email.
She looked at it.
“Oh.”
“You wrote this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She considered the question.
“When my grandmother moved in with my parents, she sold her house and gave most of the money to my father.”
I had never heard this story.
“What happened?”
“Nothing terrible.”
Her expression turned thoughtful.
“That was the problem. Everyone was nice. Everyone loved each other. But after a few years, my grandmother wanted her own apartment again.”
“And?”
“She couldn’t afford one.”
I understood.
“My father had used the money to pay off their mortgage.”
“Yes.”
“Did she stay?”
“Until she died.”
Rebecca stared at the paper.
“She never complained. But every time my parents argued, she went to her bedroom and shut the door because she said it wasn’t her house.”
Her voice softened.
“I was fourteen when she moved in. I remember thinking that being grateful looked an awful lot like being quiet.”
I looked around my apartment.
The blue armchair.
The turquoise scarf.
My ridiculous pottery-class schedule attached to the wall.
“Why didn’t you tell me this four years ago?”
“I thought making sure the paperwork was right was enough.”
“And then?”
“Then life happened.”
She smiled sadly.
“We became exactly the kind of family I thought I was protecting you from.”
I shook my head.
“Not exactly.”
“Close enough.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“There is a difference between becoming careless and becoming cruel.”
She absorbed that.
Then she nodded.
“I’ll take careless.”
“It isn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Finally she said, “Daniel thinks you’re going to demand the money and buy the townhouse.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I think you should.”
Her answer surprised me.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you lit up when you talked about the patio.”
I smiled.
“You noticed that?”
“Maggie, I lived with you for four years. I notice more than you think.”
“That is debatable.”
“Fair.”
We both laughed.
Then she looked at the email again.
