Chapter 7 - THE LETTER MY MOTHER NEVER SENT
“My mother never told me.”
I heard myself say the words, but they sounded distant.
Rebecca Miller had been dead for seven years.
I still remembered her laugh.
Her hands covered in flour.
The way she sat beside my bed when I was sick.
I remembered practically everything about her.
Except this.
Vincent moved toward me.
“Grace—”
“Please.”
He stopped.
I stared at Daniel's tablet.
“My mother was Samuel Price's daughter?”
Daniel nodded.
“She was born Rebecca Price. She married Thomas Miller twenty-nine years ago.”
I looked toward Margaret.
“Did you know her?”
Margaret's face was pale.
“I met her once.”
“When?”
“After her father disappeared.”
My throat tightened.
“She was only a little girl.”
Margaret nodded.
“She had a blue ribbon in her hair.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
My mother had kept a small box of childhood ribbons in her dresser.
I had never understood why one faded blue ribbon was wrapped separately in tissue paper.
Now I wondered whether it was the same one.
I drove to my father's rehabilitation center that evening.
Vincent offered to come.
I told him I needed to go alone.
He respected that.
Dad was reading when I entered.
He smiled.
“Back again, pumpkin?”
I sat beside him.
“Dad, who was Samuel Price?”
His expression changed immediately.
He closed his book.
“Grace.”
“Was he Mom's father?”
My father's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I looked away.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
He reached for my hand.
“Your mother wanted you to have a childhood without all of this.”
“Without knowing who my grandfather was?”
“Without being frightened by what happened to him.”
I felt anger rising.
“You let me believe my mother had no family left.”
“She didn't have anyone she trusted.”
I stood.
“That's not the same thing.”
Dad lowered his head.
“No. It isn't.”
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered, “She made me promise.”
I sat down again.
“What promise?”
“That if the people responsible for her father's disappearance ever came looking, I'd protect you.”
“Charles Sterling?”
Dad nodded.
“Your mother knew about the false accounts. Her father had written to her before he vanished.”
“Where are his letters?”
Dad hesitated.
“Your mother kept them.”
“Where?”
He looked at me.
“In the house.”
My heart began pounding.
“Our house?”
He nodded.
“Inside her sewing cabinet.”
I returned to my childhood home after dark.
The rooms smelled faintly of furniture polish.
Everything was exactly as I had left it after Dad's stroke.
My mother's sewing cabinet stood beside the living room window.
I opened the top drawer.
Needles.
Buttons.
Measuring tape.
And a small tin filled with ribbons.
The faded blue ribbon lay at the bottom.
I held it for a moment.
Then I noticed the cabinet's wooden base.
One corner was slightly raised.
I pulled it gently.
A shallow compartment slid free.
Inside was a bundle of letters tied with string.
My mother's handwriting covered the first envelope.
For Grace, when she is old enough to understand.
I sat on the floor.
And began reading.
My mother had written about her father's disappearance.
About the years of uncertainty.
About the shame of having a father accused of stealing.
But she had also written something that changed everything.
Your grandfather Samuel was an honest man. He kept copies of records because he knew powerful people could make paper disappear.
I turned the page.
Joseph DeLuca tried to help us after the fire. But he was afraid of what his own son had done.
My hands trembled.
The final letter contained a name.
Anthony DeLuca.
And a sentence I read three times.
Anthony wasn't the man who started the fire. He was the boy who tried to stop it.
I stared at the words.
Everything we believed about Vincent's father was suddenly uncertain.
I called Vincent.
He arrived twenty minutes later with Daniel.
I showed them the letters.
Vincent read the last one in silence.
Then he looked at me.
“My father tried to stop the fire?”
“That's what my mother believed.”
Daniel examined the handwriting.
“There may be more.”
He opened the bundle carefully.
At the bottom was a photograph.
A teenage Anthony stood beside Samuel Price.
They were smiling.
Anthony had one arm around Samuel's shoulders.
Vincent looked stunned.
“My father never spoke about him.”
Daniel turned the photograph over.
On the back, Samuel had written:
Anthony knows the truth.
Vincent sat down.
For the first time since I'd known him, he looked less like a powerful businessman and more like a son trying to understand the man who raised him.
“My father told me loyalty meant protecting your family,” he said.
I sat beside him.
“Maybe he was trying to protect someone.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Or maybe he was protecting himself.”
We didn't know.
And that uncertainty was becoming unbearable.
The following morning, Eleanor received the letters at the hospital.
She read them slowly.
Then covered her face.
“Rebecca kept them.”
I sat beside her.
“She was my mother.”
Eleanor reached for my hand.
“I knew your grandfather, sweetheart.”
I swallowed.
“Was he a good man?”
Her eyes filled.
“He was the kind of man who returned extra change to a cashier because he couldn't sleep if he didn't.”
I began crying.
Eleanor held my hand.
“Samuel loved his daughter. He would have loved you.”
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a grandfather I had never met.
Then Eleanor looked at the photograph of Anthony and Samuel.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you find this?”
“In my mother's cabinet.”
She pointed to the background.
A wooden door stood behind the two men.
Above it hung a brass plaque.
ACCOUNTING OFFICE.
Eleanor leaned closer.
“That's not Pier Nine.”
Vincent frowned.
“Where is it?”
“The old Sterling headquarters.”
Daniel looked up.
“That building was demolished twenty years ago.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“The offices were demolished. But the original accounting records were moved.”
“Where?”
She looked at Vincent.
“To the DeLuca foundation archives.”
Vincent frowned.
“My grandfather's charitable foundation?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Joseph created it after Gabriel disappeared. He wanted to make amends.”
Daniel checked the archive inventory.
His expression hardened.
“Boss, the archive was reorganized six months ago.”
Vincent looked at Victoria, who had accompanied us to the hospital.
“Who authorized that?”
Victoria swallowed.
“My father.”
“And who supervised it?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I did.”
The room became silent.
Vincent stared at her.
“Victoria, what did you remove?”
She began shaking.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“From what?”
Victoria reached into her handbag.
She withdrew a small black notebook.
Its cover was cracked.
Its pages were yellowed.
“My father told me to burn this.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Did you read it?”
She nodded.
“And?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Vincent, your grandfather didn't create the foundation to make amends.”
May you like
She opened the notebook to a marked page.
“HE CREATED IT TO SEND MONEY TO SAMUEL PRICE—BECAUSE SAMUEL NEVER DIED IN THAT FIRE.”
