Chapter 2 - The Secret In The Manila Envelope
The last year of Ada's life was difficult.
Her body was betraying her, even though her mind remained as sharp as a tack.
She fell in February.
It was a cold, bitter afternoon, and I had come over to drop off some mail that the postman had accidentally put in my box.
I found her on the kitchen floor.
She had been lying there for almost forty minutes, unable to reach the phone.
When I rushed to help her up, her first words weren't a cry for pain.
She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength and whispered, "Do not call Philip."
Philip was her son.
He lived three states away and made a comfortable living running a renovation business.
"Ada, you need help," I had pleaded.
"If you call him," she said, her voice shaking but stern, "he will put me in a home. He's been waiting for an excuse. Please, Helen."
So, I didn't call him.
I took her to the clinic myself. I helped her set up a ground-floor bedroom. I checked on her every single day.
A few months later, in late spring, Ada asked me to come over for tea.
She sat at her kitchen table, looking frailer than usual, and slid a thick, sealed manila envelope across the table.
"Helen," she said, looking me dead in the eye. "I need you to take this."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Insurance," she replied cryptically.
"Keep it somewhere safe in your house. Do not open it."
She took a slow sip of her tea, her hands trembling slightly.
"When the time comes, Philip is going to be angry. He is going to come looking for answers, and he might come looking for someone to blame."
I didn't understand what she meant.
"When he does," Ada instructed, "hand this to his lawyer. Not to Philip. To his lawyer."
I promised her I would.
May you like
I took the envelope home, placed it in my fireproof safe, and tried not to think about it.
I didn't know that just a few months later, I would be taking it back out.
