Fifty Thousand Dollars
Chapter 08 - Fifty Thousand Dollars
Margaret refused to answer my calls.
So I went to her.
She lived in a house that had too many rooms for one person and not enough warmth for any of them.
I put the bank record on her dining table.
"What did my father pay you for?"
Margaret didn't touch it.
"He didn't."
"The record says otherwise."
For the first time since I'd known her, Margaret looked old.
Not elegant.
Not powerful.
Just tired.
"Your father discovered the letter," she said.
"I know."
"He threatened to tell Grant."
"So you took fifty thousand dollars?"
"It wasn't payment."
"What was it?"
She looked toward the window.
"A repayment."
Years earlier, Grant's company had almost collapsed.
My father invested money that saved it.
Margaret, desperate to maintain control, secretly borrowed additional funds from him.
The fifty thousand dollars had nothing to do with Hannah.
It had been an old debt.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I was angry at myself for wanting every mystery to have one villain.
Life was rarely that simple.
"Why did you forge Grant's letter?"
Margaret's answer surprised me.
"Because I knew my son."
"So did I."
"No, Claire. You knew the man he became."
She looked at me.
"The Grant who returned from Savannah was ready to throw away everything because he hated himself for leaving you when you were grieving."
I frowned.
"What are you saying?"
"He came to me before he came back to you."
My heart began pounding.
"He told me there had been another woman."
Grant had confessed to Margaret.
Not to me.
"He wanted to tell you," she continued. "I told him not to."
"You convinced him to lie."
"I convinced him not to destroy you."
"No. You convinced him that my weakness mattered more than my right to know."
Margaret looked away.
Then she said softly, "Perhaps."
It was the closest thing to an apology I would ever get.
When I returned home, Grant was waiting.
"The DNA results came."
I stopped inside the doorway.
He held the envelope.
I thought about Eli.
About Hannah.
About my father.
About the baby girl Grant and I had buried.
Nine years of silence had led to this single sheet of paper.
"Open it," I said.
Grant did.
He read the result.
His eyes closed.
"Well?"
He looked at me.
May you like
"He's my son."
And somehow, hearing the truth confirmed hurt more than wondering ever had.
