Chapter 4 - THE LETTER MY MOTHER NEVER OPENED
I knelt on the floor of the country club, staring at the faded ink.
My mother stood above me, her arms crossed, a triumphant smirk on her face. She thought this letter was my final humiliation. She thought my father had written a condemnation of my life.
But my mother had never opened the envelope. If she had, she would have burned it.
I read the first line again, my heart pounding so hard it hurt my ribs.
To my attorney, Arthur Sterling.
I looked up. Arthur Sterling was one of my parents’ oldest friends. He was sitting at Table Three, watching this entire spectacle unfold with a look of profound horror.
“Mr. Sterling,” I called out, my voice cutting through the whispers of the remaining guests.
The elderly lawyer stood up, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. He walked over to me, his eyes darting between my mother and the letter in my hand.
“Rebecca, my dear. Are you alright?” he asked gently.
“Patricia just gave me this,” I said, handing him the letter. I didn't call her Mom. The word tasted like ash in my mouth.
Arthur took the letter. He pulled his reading glasses from his breast pocket and began to read. As his eyes scanned the page, his face drained of color. He looked at my mother, an expression of sheer disgust twisting his features.
“Patricia,” Arthur said, his voice trembling with anger. “You told me Harold tore this up.”
My mother’s confident smirk vanished. “Tore what up? It’s just a letter complaining about Rebecca’s poor choices.”
“It is not,” Arthur said firmly. He turned to face the room. “This is a legal addendum. A holographic will, written entirely in Harold’s handwriting, dated three days before his passing.”
My mother took a step backward. “No. That’s impossible. Harold left everything to me! You processed the paperwork yourself, Arthur!”
“I processed the paperwork you provided me, Patricia,” Arthur corrected sharply. “You swore to me, as my friend, that Harold died without updating his final wishes. You told me he was too confused at the end.”
Arthur looked down at the letter, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“But Harold wasn't confused,” Arthur read aloud. “He writes here: Arthur, Patricia and Natalie are draining the accounts. I caught Natalie taking out a second mortgage on the house. Patricia is helping her cover it up.”
A loud gasp ripped through the ballroom. The wealthy women who had applauded my mother twenty minutes ago were now staring at her in absolute horror.
“He’s lying!” my mother shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the letter. “Harold was on heavy pain medication! He didn't know what he was saying!”
“He knew exactly what he was saying,” Arthur continued, his voice booming across the room. “I cannot trust my wife to protect my daughters. Therefore, I am revoking my previous will. I leave the family home, entirely and exclusively, to my eldest daughter, Rebecca Elaine Walsh.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
Entirely and exclusively.
Dad didn't leave me half the house. He left me the whole thing.
“He goes on,” Arthur said, holding his hand up to silence my mother, who was hyperventilating. “Rebecca has the purest heart in this family. She will never sell the home. She will keep it safe for Sophie. But Arthur, you must ensure Patricia never finds the locked box in my study. The real deed is inside it.”
My mother froze.
“The locked box,” my mother whispered.
Suddenly, her eyes widened in absolute panic. She spun around, hiking up her expensive gown, and began sprinting toward the exit of the ballroom, completely abandoning her own birthday party.
“She’s going to the house!” Sophie yelled, tugging on my hand. “Mom, she’s going to destroy the box!”
Arthur Sterling shoved the letter into his jacket pocket. He looked at me, the polite, elderly lawyer suddenly replaced by a man ready for war.
“My car is out front, Rebecca,” Arthur said. “We have to beat her there.”
I grabbed Sophie’s hand. We ran.
We burst through the country club doors and sprinted to Arthur’s sedan. He peeled out of the valet line, tires screeching against the pavement.
The drive to my childhood home usually took twenty minutes. Arthur did it in twelve.
When we pulled onto the familiar oak-lined street, my heart sank. There were no lights on inside the beautiful colonial house. But parked on the front lawn, crushing the azalea bushes my father had planted, was David’s luxury SUV.
And standing on the front porch, wielding a heavy iron crowbar, was Natalie.
She was smashing the lock on the front door.
“Natalie!” I screamed, jumping out of the car before Arthur had even put it in park.
Natalie whipped around. Her perfect hair was a mess. Her makeup was streaked with sweat and tears. She looked like a cornered animal.
“You’re not getting it!” Natalie screamed, raising the crowbar. “David froze my accounts! I have nothing! If I don't get that deed, I'm going to prison!”
She swung the crowbar at the heavy oak door one last time. The wood splintered, and the door swung open. Natalie bolted inside.
I ran after her, Sophie right behind me.
But when we crossed the threshold into the dark hallway, we all froze.
The house was empty.
Not just unoccupied. Empty.
The furniture, the rugs, the paintings on the walls—everything was gone. The only thing left in the entire house was my father’s massive, antique grandfather clock standing at the end of the hall.
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And standing next to it, holding a red gasoline can, was my mother.
TITLE: THE GASOLINE ON THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR
