I could barely speak. “Why?”
Mr. Cooper pointed to the memo line.
Every deposit said the same thing.
For Sylvie’s due.
My throat tightened.
Inside the envelope was a letter.
Walter wrote that if I was reading it, I had finally used the card. He admitted he had told me it held only two thousand dollars because that was the only amount I might accept. He called it a coward’s number—enough to make him feel decent, but not enough to make me feel cared for.
He wrote that I had raised our children, stretched his paychecks, hosted holidays, remembered birthdays, and cared for his mother when he couldn’t handle hospitals.
Then came the line that broke me.
This money isn’t a gift. It isn’t kindness. It’s part of what I owe.
I read it again and again.
It didn’t heal the wound. It didn’t erase the betrayal. But it proved Walter knew exactly what I had carried.
