The pages trembled in my hands.
The envelope also held a draft of the guardianship forms, signed by both Michael and my mother. The notary seal stamped at the bottom, neat and complete — as if everything had been ready.
Then came the letter — Aunt Sammie’s sharp, formal handwriting covering the page.
She had written that Michael wasn’t stable. That she had consulted lawyers. That “a man with no relation to the child cannot provide proper structure.” It wasn’t about safety; it was about control.
And then the journal page. On a single torn sheet were my mother’s words:
“If anything happens, don’t let them take her.”
I pressed the paper against my chest and shut my eyes. The floor felt cold beneath me, but the ache inside me swallowed it whole.
He had carried this alone. And he never let it reach me.
The appointment at the attorney’s office was set for eleven, but Aunt Sammie called at nine.
“I know that your father’s will is being read today. I thought maybe we could walk in together,” she said. Her voice was soft and polished. “Family should sit together, don’t you think?”
“You never sat with us before,” I replied, unsure what else to say.
“Oh, Clover. That was a long time ago.”
A pause followed — not long enough to hang up, just long enough to remind me she was waiting.
“I just… I know things were tense back then,” she went on. “But your mother and I… we had a complicated bond. And Michael — well, I know you cared for him.”
“Cared?” I asked. “Past tense?”
Another pause.
“I just want today to go smoothly. For everyone.”
When we arrived, she greeted the attorney by name and shook his hand like an old acquaintance. She kissed my cheek, and the scent of rose hand cream lingered long after she stepped away.
She wore pearls and pale pink lipstick, her blonde hair swept into a bun that made her look younger.
As the lawyer read the will, she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she hadn’t touched until someone glanced her way.
When he finished and asked if there were questions, I stood. Aunt Sammie turned toward me, her eyebrows lifted in a gentle, gracious curve.
“I’d like to say something.”
The room fell silent as I met her gaze.
“You didn’t lose a sister when my mother died. You lost control.”
A cousin at the end of the table let out a quiet, stunned laugh.
“Sammie… What did you do?”
The lawyer cleared his throat.
“For the record, Michael preserved correspondence related to an attempted custody action.”
“Clover, what are you —”
“I know about the letters, and the threats. And the lawyers. You tried to take me from the only parent I had left.”
Her mouth opened, but no words followed.
“Michael didn’t owe me anything,” I said. “But he gave me everything. He wasn’t given the right to be my dad — he earned it. I don’t understand why you’re here. Did you think my father would have left something for you? He left the truth.”
She looked away.
**
That night, I opened the box labeled “Clover’s Art Projects” and pulled out the macaroni bracelet I’d made in second grade. The string was frayed, the glue brittle, but flecks of yellow paint still clung to the edges.
I traced a finger over the beads, remembering how proud Michael had looked when I gave it to him. He’d worn it all day — even to the grocery store — like it was solid gold.
I slipped it onto my wrist. It barely fit, the elastic pressing lightly into my skin.
“Still holds,” I whispered.
At the back of the box, beneath a paper-mâché volcano, was an old Polaroid. It was me, missing a front tooth, sitting on his lap. He wore that ridiculous flannel shirt I always borrowed when I was sick.
The same one still hanging on the back of his bedroom door.
I grabbed it and slipped it on, then stepped out onto the porch.
The night air felt cool. I sat on the steps, arms wrapped around my knees, the bracelet snug against my wrist. Above me, the sky stretched wide and black, scattered with stars I never bothered to name.
I pulled out my phone and Frank’s business card.
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