Chapter 10 - THE TRUTH MY MOTHER COULDN'T HIDEDelaney read Mom's name three times.
Then she looked at me.
"Maybe there's an explanation."
I wanted to believe that.
Despite everything, a small part of me still hoped our mother had been misled by Dad.
Maybe she'd signed something without understanding it.
Maybe she'd been told Grandma had already approved the transaction.
Maybe she wasn't as involved as the documents suggested.
But there was no denying what we were looking at.
Gwendolyn Whitaker.
Witness.
The signature beside her name was unmistakable.
Thomas watched us quietly.
I took a photograph of the document and sent it to Miles.
Then I called him.
He answered almost immediately.
"Everett?"
"We found something."
I explained the witness signature and the recording from hospice.
Miles listened carefully.
"That's potentially important. Please send me the recording once you locate it, and don't alter the original file."
I nodded.
"What about Mom?"
"Her signature raises questions. We need to establish whether she signed the document, what she witnessed, and what she understood."
"Should I ask her?"
"I'd advise against confronting her right now. Let the evidence develop."
I ended the call.
Delaney was still staring at the document.
"She knew."
Her voice was barely audible.
I looked at her.
"We don't know everything yet."
She shook her head.
"Everett, Mom was the one who told me Grandma wanted me to have the car."
I didn't answer.
She continued.
"She helped me choose the color. She came to the dealership with Dad. She even insisted on the bigger package because she said Ryder's mother would notice."
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
"Maybe we should take a break."
Delaney gave a bitter laugh.
"From what? Finding out our parents are liars?"
Her voice cracked.
Then she covered her face.
"I'm sorry."
Thomas quietly brought her a chair.
For several minutes, she cried.
I stood beside Grandma's piano, feeling as though the instrument had become the center of a storm that had been building for decades.
Eventually, Delaney looked up.
"Everett, I need to tell you something."
I sat across from her.
"What?"
"When I was sixteen, I found a letter in Dad's desk."
Thomas went still.
"What kind of letter?"
"It was from a woman named Rebecca Reed."
I looked toward Thomas.
His expression changed.
Delaney continued.
"I remember the name because Mom was furious when she caught me reading it."
"What did the letter say?" Thomas asked quietly.
Delaney swallowed.
"I didn't read all of it. But I remember one sentence."
She looked at him.
"It said, 'Thomas deserves to know that his father is proud of him, even if you refuse to say it publicly.'"
Thomas looked away.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then he reached for a tool on the workbench, set it down again, and turned toward the window.
"My mother never told me she wrote that."
Delaney's eyes filled.
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"She was trying to protect me."
I looked at my sister.
"What did Mom do with the letter?"
"She tore it up."
The room became silent.
My mother hadn't simply tolerated Dad's rejection of Thomas.
She had helped preserve it.
And in that moment, I understood that her obsession with appearances had hurt more people than I ever realized.
Thomas eventually turned back toward us.
"My mother used to say something about people who are ashamed of the truth."
I waited.
"She said the truth doesn't disappear just because someone refuses to acknowledge it."
He looked at us.
"She also told me not to build my life around waiting for Calvin to become a different man."
I thought about Grandma.
She had given me almost identical advice.
Maybe that was what loving people wisely meant.
Not teaching them to wait forever for someone else's approval.
But helping them build a good life without it.
That evening, Delaney and I returned to Minneapolis.
I called the school assistant who had recorded the hospice performance.
Fortunately, she still had the original video.
She sent me a secure copy.
The recording showed Grandma sitting in her hospice bed at 2:14 p.m. on the day the disputed authorization had supposedly been signed at the lakehouse.
The document stated that Grandma had signed at 2:30 p.m.
The drive between the two locations took more than half an hour in ordinary traffic.
The timing was impossible.
Miles was cautious when I forwarded the recording.
"It supports Loretta's account and gives us another lead," he said. "But we'll verify the timestamps and original files before relying on it."
I appreciated his careful approach.
Still, for the first time, I felt that we were moving toward something solid.
Something my father couldn't dismiss with an insult.
Two days later, Mom called.
I answered while preparing dinner.
"Everett."
Her voice sounded exhausted.
"We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Your father."
I turned off the stove.
"What about him?"
"He's not sleeping. Hugh has suspended him from certain financial decisions. People are calling. Our accounts are being reviewed."
I remained silent.
Then she said:
"I need you to convince Loretta to stop this."
I closed my eyes.
"Mom, she didn't start it."
"You don't understand what's at stake."
"Then tell me."
Her breathing grew uneven.
"If the investigation continues, your father could lose everything."
"That isn't a reason to hide the truth."
She paused.
Then her voice dropped.
"Everett, I signed something."
My heart began pounding.
"What did you sign?"
"I thought Calvin had already spoken to Loretta."
I gripped the counter.
"Are you talking about the piano?"
"Yes."
"Mom, did you witness Grandma signing that power of attorney?"
Silence.
"Mom?"
"No."
The word was almost inaudible.
I closed my eyes.
"Then why did you sign as a witness?"
She began crying.
"Because Calvin told me it was only a formality."
I leaned against the counter.
"Do you understand what that means?"
"I do now."
For the first time, I heard something like genuine fear in her voice.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
"Everett, there's another document."
I stared at the dark kitchen window.
"What document?"
She whispered:
"One your father asked me to sign after he learned Loretta had changed her estate plan."
I couldn't move.
"What does it say?"
May you like
Mom's voice trembled.
"It says your grandmother transferred the lakehouse to him."
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