The first birthday when no card arrived.
The first year Grandma placed the deposit slip inside mine.
I had always thought of the savings as proof that Grandma believed I could build a life beyond our circumstances.
Now they were also proof that someone had entered that life quietly and taken what she could.
At nine the next morning, Mr. Ellis called.
“I reviewed the preliminary records,” he said. “There are two things you need to know before you meet your mother.”
“What?”
“First, the account was originally opened under a custodial arrangement. When you turned eighteen, it should have been transferred entirely into your control.”
“Should have been?”
“The transfer appears to have been delayed.”
“Why?”
“I’m still investigating. But there was a form submitted when you were seventeen requesting that the account remain under the existing management structure until your twenty-first birthday.”
“Who signed it?”
“I don’t know yet. The signature is being examined.”
My pulse began to race.
“Could it be Grandma?”
“It could. But there’s another issue.”
“What?”
“There was a second account.”
I sat upright.
“What second account?”
“One connected to your grandmother’s name and your Social Security number. It was closed two years ago.”
“Did Mom withdraw that too?”
“We don’t know. The records are incomplete.”
“Why didn’t the bank tell me?”
“Because the account was not listed in the same system as the birthday fund. It may have been a separate savings certificate.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead.
“How much was in it?”
Mr. Ellis paused.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
I looked around Grandma’s living room.
The house was still full of her. Her knitted blanket lay folded over the armchair. A ceramic bowl held unopened mail beside the lamp. Her reading glasses rested on a book, the pages marked by a receipt from the grocery store.
Nothing had moved since the funeral except the things I had packed for donation.
“Did Grandma know about the second account?” I asked.
“She opened it.”
“Then why didn’t she tell me?”
“Maybe she intended to. Maybe she wanted to leave it with the rest of your inheritance. Or perhaps she didn’t want anyone else to know.”
“Mom knew.”
“I’m not certain of that.”
“But she said she was there when Grandma signed papers.”
“That doesn’t mean she knew about every account.”
“What should I do?”
“Listen first. Don’t promise anything. Don’t sign anything.”
At ten minutes past ten, Mom arrived.
She wore a cream-colored coat and carried a leather handbag I had never seen before. Her hair was carefully styled, but her face looked tired. She glanced at the house as if she were visiting a place she had once loved and no longer recognized.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she said, “You’ve changed the locks.”
“After the funeral.”
“Why?”
“Because people had been coming in and out.”
“I’m your mother.”
“You still need to knock.”
Her mouth tightened, but she stepped inside when I opened the door.
The sight of her standing in Grandma’s hallway affected me more than I expected. Mom looked older than she had in the pictures she sent me. The new car, the polished clothes, the smiling family photographs—none of them had shown the tiredness beneath her eyes.
She looked toward the kitchen.
“Does it still smell like cinnamon?”
“I baked yesterday.”
“Your grandmother always made cinnamon rolls on Sundays.”
“I know.”
“I used to help her.”
The statement surprised me.
“You did?”
“When I was young.”
I said nothing.
Mom removed her coat and placed it over the back of a chair.
“I brought something,” she said.
“What?”
She opened her handbag and took out a small metal tin.
It was dented along one side. The lid was decorated with faded red flowers.
I recognized it immediately.
“Grandma kept that in the dresser,” I said.
“She gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“What’s inside?”
Mom looked at the tin but did not open it.
“Letters.”
“From Grandma?”
“Some.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Because I was her daughter.”
The words were not angry this time. They were almost pleading.
I pointed toward the kitchen table.
“Sit down.”
She sat. I took the chair across from her.
For several moments, the only sound was the ticking wall clock.
Then Mom placed the tin between us.
“Your grandmother and I had a complicated relationship,” she said.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
She touched the lid with one finger.
“When I was pregnant with you, I was twenty-two. Your father had already left. I was working two jobs and barely managing. Grandma wanted me to move back home.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because she made me feel like I had failed.”