My Son Threw Thanksgiving Dinner at Me—Then Tried to Spend the Money From My House

I called Helen before I called Stuart.

“The financial papers were in it,” I said. “Some originals.”

“Are there account numbers?”

“Yes.”

“Call the institutions now. I’ll help you make a list.”

Denise came over and sat with me while I made those calls. By evening, every relevant account had an added alert. I could order replacement documents. Losing the box frightened me because it meant someone had entered my study and taken it.

Stuart denied touching it.

Jennifer answered his phone the second time I called.

“You should check your memory before accusing people,” she said.

“Put Stuart on.”

“He’s busy.”

I hung up.

Lily called an hour later from her bedroom, speaking softly.

“Dad brought a gray box home on Sunday.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. Mom took it out to her car.”

“Don’t look for it, honey. You’ve helped me enough.”

“But I saw her take something else.”

“What?”

“A folder with Grandpa’s name on it. She said it proved what he wanted done with the house.”

Robert had kept a handwritten letter in the box. He had written it after his first heart attack, long before he died. I knew every line. It told me to travel if I wanted to, repair the porch if I didn’t, and never feel guilty spending the money we had saved together.

Nothing in it gave Stuart the house.

I remembered the last line especially:

Make a life that still belongs to you, Ines.

Jennifer might try to twist the letter. I had a scan on my computer, but I wanted the original back.

Helen advised me to report the missing box and let her contact Stuart in writing. I did both.

Two days later, an envelope appeared in my mailbox.

Inside was a photocopy of Robert’s letter.

The last paragraph had been cut off.