Chapter 3 - THE VISIT MY MOTHER NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT
"What did Victoria take from Mom?"
My father lowered himself into the kitchen chair.
His face had the exhausted look I remembered from the months before my mother died.
"Sit down, Carolina."
I remained standing.
"Tell me."
He nodded.
"Your mother first sent compositions to the foundation when you were seventeen. She thought they might sponsor our school or help you keep your scholarship."
I remembered those envelopes.
Mom had addressed them carefully, using her best handwriting.
She'd even made photocopies at the public library because our printer was broken.
"Nobody answered," I said.
"Not then."
Dad opened the green box.
"Years later, when Elena was seriously ill, Victoria contacted us. She said the foundation was reviewing older submissions."
"Why would she suddenly care?"
"Your mother's music was being considered for a fundraising program. Victoria offered financial assistance while they evaluated it."
He pushed the blue receipt toward me.
"Twelve thousand dollars. Three payments."
I stared at the paper.
"We were borrowing money from your aunt for Mom's medication that year."
"I know."
"And you never told me this existed?"
He looked down.
"I told myself the money came from charity. Your mother didn't see it that way."
"What did she think?"
"She believed Victoria was trying to buy her work for almost nothing."
My father paused.
"Elena agreed the foundation could perform one piece at a fundraising event. She never agreed to sell the copyright."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Do you have that agreement?"
"Maybe."
He began sorting through the envelopes.
Most contained hospital invoices, canceled checks, and notes written in my mother's handwriting.
Then I found a folded yellow paper.
Across the top were the words:
Permission for One-Time Charitable Performance.
Below them was the title Sofia's Waltz.
My mother's signature appeared near the bottom.
The permission was limited to one event.
Nothing mentioned ownership.
Nothing authorized anyone to sell the composition.
I looked at Dad.
"This could prove everything."
He shook his head.
"It proves what your mother agreed to. I don't know what happened afterward."
"What did Victoria say when Mom objected?"
Dad stared at his hands.
"That the foundation had already begun promoting the composition and couldn't reverse its plans."
"And Mom?"
"She told Victoria she would rather lose the money than lose her name."
I swallowed hard.
That sounded exactly like my mother.
Gentle about almost everything.
Stubborn about what mattered.
"Then why didn't you fight?"
He flinched.
I regretted the words immediately.
But I couldn't take them back.
"After your mother died," Dad said, "Victoria's office contacted me. They said there were financial obligations connected to the assistance agreement. They warned that challenging the foundation could result in repayment demands."
"Twelve thousand dollars?"
"Plus fees they claimed we owed."
"Did they put that in writing?"
"No."
He looked at me.
"I should have asked. I should have shown you the papers. But you were already working two jobs, and I couldn't stand the thought of you carrying another problem."
"So you let me believe nobody had helped us."
"Yes."
His honesty made me angrier.
Because I could hear the love in it.
And the cowardice.
Both were real.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
Sofia stood in the doorway wearing an oversized college sweatshirt.
"What's going on?"
I looked at my little sister.
Eighteen now.
The same age I'd been when I'd folded away my scholarship letter.
"Someone took credit for Mom's music."
Sofia's eyes widened.
"What music?"
"Sofia's Waltz."
Her mouth opened slightly.
"The one she wrote for me?"
I nodded.
Sofia walked toward the table.
"That's impossible."
I showed her the manuscript photograph.
Then the program from the gala.
She read Victoria's printed credit twice.
Her face changed.
"She knew."
I looked up.
"What?"
"That woman knew who Mom was."
Dad frowned.
"Sofia?"
My sister ignored him.
She hurried into her bedroom.
When she returned, she was holding an old tablet.
"I found this last year when I was organizing family pictures."
She opened a photograph.
Mom was sitting at our upright piano.
Sofia, about twelve years old, stood beside her.
In the background, a woman wearing a cream-colored jacket was looking through a folder.
Victoria Luján.
I recognized her immediately.
The picture had been taken inside our old music school shortly before it closed.
"Why didn't you show me this?"
"I didn't think it mattered. I just liked the picture of Mom."
She enlarged the image.
Victoria was holding a piece of music.
Across its cover, I could barely make out my mother's handwriting.
The same title.
The same blue ink.
My throat tightened.
"Can you send me that photograph?"
Sofia nodded.
Then she said, "There's another picture."
She swiped.
This time, Mom stood beside Victoria near the school's entrance.
Neither woman was smiling.
My mother was holding an envelope.
I recognized that envelope.
Green.
The same shade as the metal box on our kitchen table.
I reached inside the box and searched through the remaining papers.
There it was.
A carbon copy of a letter dated several weeks before Mom died.
My mother's handwriting covered the page.
I read the first paragraph aloud.
"I am withdrawing permission for any future use of my compositions beyond the single performance previously agreed upon."
My father covered his eyes.
"I remember that letter."
"Did she send it?"
"Certified mail."
"Do you have the receipt?"
He searched until he found a small postal slip.
Delivered.
Accepted.
Signed.
I held it beside the photograph.
For six years, Victoria had claimed the song as her own.
Now I had proof she'd known its real author.
But Sofia was staring at something else.
"Carolina," she whispered.
"What?"
She pointed to the bottom of Mom's letter.
There were four additional composition titles.
Not one stolen song.
Five.
May you like
And beside the final title, my mother had written:
"If anything happens to me, make sure Carolina knows what they have."
