I sank into the chair.
“Why?”
“That’s not mine.”
Mr. Cooper pointed to the memo line. “Every deposit says the same thing.”
I read it twice.
“For Sylvie’s due.”
My throat closed.
“Open the envelope,” Mr. Cooper said gently.
I tore it with my thumb.
Inside was one page.
“Open the envelope.”
“Sylvie,
If you’re reading this, you finally used the card.
I told you it had two thousand dollars because I knew that was the only amount you might believe. It was a coward’s number.
Enough to make me feel decent while I walked out, but not enough to make you feel cared for.
You raised our children. You stretched my paychecks. You hosted every holiday, remembered every birthday, and cared for my mother when I said I couldn’t handle hospitals.
This money isn’t a gift. It isn’t kindness. It’s part of what I owe.
