He wrote that he had been sending Grace’s mother money for years.
That when her mother died, he had placed Grace with a family friend, a woman named Marta Hensley, and paid for her schooling from a distance.
I opened one of the envelopes.
That he could not die knowing she would be alone in the world.
He listed Marta’s address in careful print, and beneath it the number of a bank account he had opened in Grace’s name, funded quietly over the last decade.
I folded the letter with hands that would not stop shaking.
“He used me,” I said.
“He loved you.”
“He used me, Grace.” My voice cracked.
“He used me,”
“He knew I would agree to adopt you. He knew I would never refuse a dying man. So he waited until he was too weak for me to argue with, and handed me his father’s mess to clean up.”
