I know because she dated every page, the way she’d dated every receipt at the store.
“Jenna,” it began, “I am going to tell you what your father did, in order, because you are the one person in this family who will want it in order.”
Six years ago, after Grandpa’s stroke, my father had brought her a power of attorney.
“Just for the bills, Mom.
Just until you’re back on your feet.”
She had signed it.
Within a year, the investment accounts had begun to bleed — small transfers, four and five thousand at a time, into an account labeled “Caldwell Family Holdings.”
There was no Caldwell Family Holdings.
There was my father’s business, which had been failing since the recession, and my mother’s kitchen renovation, and Kayla’s tuition at a college she had attended for three semesters.
Grandmother had noticed in year two.
She had said nothing.
“Because I wanted to see how far he would go,” she wrote, “and because your grandfather always said you cannot prove a man is a th*ef while he still has your wallet in his hand.
You wait until he sets it down.”
“I also waited, Jenna, because I am his mother, and for two years I hoped he would put it back.
He did not.
I want you to know that I gave him the chance.
It matters to me that you know.”
I read that paragraph three times.
It was the only place in four pages where her handwriting shook.
Year four: the house.
