Then I remembered Dad’s warning.
“Why didn’t he want Natalie to know?”
Priya chose her words carefully.
“Your father asked me to make sure the inheritance was clearly established as your separate property before it was disclosed.”
“Why?”
“He was concerned that if information spread too soon, the situation could become unnecessarily complicated.”
I thought about Natalie standing in the kitchen.
**This is our house.**
The same house Dad had helped us buy.
I thought about how quickly she had dismissed him when he needed help.
How offended she had been that I gave him $1,000.
Dad hadn’t accused her of anything.
He had simply paid attention.
An hour later, the surgeon came through the doors.
“Your father made it through.”
My knees nearly gave out.
The repair had been difficult, but Dad was stable.
The next morning, I sat beside his hospital bed.
He was pale and exhausted.
The first thing he asked was,
“Did you read it?”
“I read it.”
He searched my face.
“And?”
I took his hand.
“Apparently I have a whole box of birthday letters to read.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Then I looked at him.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me about Eleanor thirty years ago.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me you were scared about your memory.”
He looked away.
That part was also in the letter.
Six weeks earlier, Dad had experienced a brief memory lapse and panicked.
His doctors had found nothing definitive, but it terrified him.
He suddenly realized that if he waited too long to tell me the truth, there might come a day when no one believed him.
So he gathered proof.
Records.
DNA.
Legal documents.
Everything.
“I was afraid you’d look at me like I didn’t know what I was talking about,” he whispered.
“You gave me proof before I even had the chance to doubt you.”
He gave a weak laugh.
“That was the idea.”
Over the next several days, Natalie became increasingly impatient.
“What was in the envelope?”
“Why are you hiding things?”
“What did the attorney say?”
I didn’t lie.
I told her it involved something legal and financial Dad had been arranging.
I told her I would explain when the paperwork was finished.
That wasn’t enough for her.
“You’re keeping secrets from me now,” she snapped one evening. “Just like your father.”
