Grandma called the following week.
She asked whether we could meet and talk.
I agreed.
We arranged a time that would work around Maisie's schedule.
I packed the diaper bag, checked the formula, and wrapped my daughter in her familiar blanket.
Before leaving, I looked at the bills on the counter.
They were still unpaid.
The investigation had not changed my bank balance.
I couldn't afford to treat an uncertain outcome as money I already had.
So I took the documents I had gathered and placed them in a folder.
Then I locked the apartment and carried Maisie downstairs.
Grandma greeted me warmly when I arrived.
She held out her arms for the baby.
I passed Maisie to her and watched them settle together.
For a few minutes, we talked about ordinary things.
Maisie's sleep.
The way she had started reaching for objects.
How quickly she seemed to outgrow her clothes.
It was the kind of conversation I had wanted at Thanksgiving.
I found myself wishing we could have had it before everything else came to light.
Eventually, Grandma looked at me.
“I've spoken with Miles again.”
I sat down.
“Is there an answer?”
“He is still working through the records. He wants to be certain that the destination information and the documents are properly verified.”
I nodded.
I had learned not to push for a conclusion before one was supported.
“Has Vivian cooperated?”
“She's been asked to provide information about the arrangements.”
Grandma didn't say more.
I understood that she was trying to avoid repeating anything she couldn't confirm.
I appreciated that.
She looked down at Maisie.
“I keep thinking about what you told me at Thanksgiving.”
I waited.
“You were trying to survive, and I believed you had the resources to do much more than survive.”
I looked at my daughter.
“I didn't know you thought that.”
“I know.”
Grandma's voice softened.
“I should have spoken to you directly.”
I didn't argue with her.
We had both made mistakes in how we communicated.
But the money itself was a separate matter.
I wanted to make sure she understood that I was not blaming her for my injuries, Owen's death, or the bills that followed.
“I know you wanted to help me,” I said.
“I did.”
“And I know you didn't understand what was happening.”
She looked at me.
“That doesn't mean I should have stopped asking questions.”
I thought about the months when I had avoided her calls.
I thought about the messages I had answered with a few words because I didn't want to admit how frightened I was.
“I could have told you more,” I said.
“Yes.”
She paused.
“But you should not have had to know about a transfer you never received in order to ask for help.”
I felt my throat tighten.
It was the first time someone had put it that plainly.
I had believed I needed to be stronger.
I had believed that asking for help meant admitting failure.
And I had believed that if I kept my problems quiet, I could protect the people I loved from worrying about me.
But none of that explained the missing money.
Grandma adjusted Maisie's blanket.
“I want you to know that the review will continue.”
“Thank you.”
“I won't ask you to accept an explanation that the records don't support.”
I looked at her.
That promise mattered more than any reassurance that everything would be fine.
I didn't need her to promise that the family would remain unchanged.
It already had.
I needed the truth.
After a while, we talked about Owen.
Grandma asked how I had been managing the grief.
I told her some days were easier than others.
I told her I still sometimes reached for my phone to share something with him before remembering that I couldn't.
She listened.
She didn't tell me to be strong.
She didn't say everything happened for a reason.
She simply sat with me while I talked.
I had missed that.
When it was time to leave, she helped me settle Maisie into her carrier.
She tucked the blanket around her and made sure the loose thread was out of reach.
Then she looked at me.
“Call me if you need something.”
This time, I didn't promise that I would be fine.
“I will try.”
She nodded.
“That's enough.”
I drove home with Maisie sleeping behind me.
The sky was clear, and the road was dry.
Nothing dramatic happened on the way back.
No one called with a sudden answer.
No new document appeared.
But I felt different.
I had spent months thinking that love meant not troubling people with my problems.
Now I was beginning to understand that love also required honesty.
It required asking questions when something didn't make sense.
It required accepting that a person could care about you and still fail to understand what you were going through.
And it required looking directly at the facts when the truth became uncomfortable.
I still didn't know where the one hundred eighty thousand dollars had gone.
I still didn't know what the records would establish about the person who had handled the arrangements.
But I was no longer willing to pretend that the unanswered questions were unimportant.
When I got home, I placed the folder on the kitchen table.
Then I picked up Maisie and carried her to her crib.
She woke just long enough to grip my finger.
I stayed beside her until she settled again.
For once, I didn't count the coins in the jar or calculate which bill could wait.
I simply watched my daughter sleep.
Tomorrow, there would be more questions.
And when the answers came, I would face them.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: Miles Finally Asked for a Conversation With All of Us Present, and I Knew the Questions About the Three Transfers Could No Longer Be Avoided
The Question My Grandmother Asked at Thanksgiving Made Me Realize Someone Had Been Living a Very Different Version of My Life
Part 16 of 20
