At seventeen, she had grown taller than me.
She had my dark hair but her father’s green eyes and the kind
of determined expression that made teachers either adore her or surrender.
She glanced up.
“How was Mrs.
Whitaker?”
I set my keys down.
“She bought our house.”
Willa stared at me.
“What?”
“She bought our house.”
Silence.
Then she laughed.
I didn’t.
Her mouth slowly closed.
“Mom.”
“And she’s giving it to me.”
Willa pushed away from the counter.
“What?”
I told her everything.
The check.
The education account.
The deed.
Margaret’s letter.
By the time I finished, Willa was crying too.
“She did all that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently she’s been secretly watching us struggle for eight years.”
Willa smiled through tears.
“That sounds creepy when you say it like that.”
I laughed.
It felt good.
Then Willa picked up the letter.
She read it quietly.
