“Why do you think I said ‘yes’ to your offer, Adam?”
“I needed to know if that boy was still there.”
We sat in silence.
The next morning, I called my parents.
“We need to talk.”
At the restaurant, my mother looked cold.
Claire slid the photo across the table.
“Do you remember her?”
My mother smiled thinly.
“You really thought I wouldn’t recognize her?”
“My mother never recovered,” Claire said.
“You married the help’s daughter,” my mother said.
“You married the help’s daughter.”
Claire stood firm. “No. He married the daughter of the woman you blamed.”
“Lower your voice,” my father said.
“Why?” Claire asked.
My mother paled.
“She stole from us.”
“No,” I said. “You found the bracelet later.”
“Lower your voice,” my father said.
“No,” I said again.
The room fell silent.
“My mother has a name,” Claire said. “It’s Martha.”
“My mother has a name. It’s Martha.”
My parents left.
I stood. “I’m done taking your money.”
Claire took my hand.
On the way home, Claire pulled out a recipe.
“I have my mom’s cookie recipe.”
“Thank you for bringing her back to me.”
“Everything’s different now,” she said.
“We should get to know each other.”
“Maybe a date?”
Later, she handed me a warm cookie.
And I finally understood something.
Love had never lived in my parents’ money.
It had always lived in the people they thought didn’t matter.
