Chapter 4 - What Shirley Had Been Hiding
I didn't open the box immediately.
I wanted to.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to pull the cardboard flaps apart and find out what Dad meant.
But another part of me was afraid.
Because grief had taught me something I hadn't understood before Mom died.
Sometimes not knowing hurts less than knowing.
Dad sat opposite me at the kitchen table.
His tie from prom hung loose around his neck.
The house was painfully quiet.
"Where's Shirley?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"She drove away."
"And you let her?"
Dad rubbed both hands over his face.
"Emma, I don't know what I'm doing."
I stared at him.
That might have been the first completely truthful thing he'd said to me in months.
"I noticed some boxes in the garage yesterday," he continued. "They were behind the old camping equipment."
"Mom's boxes?"
He nodded.
"I assumed they were things Shirley hadn't donated yet."
My anger rose.
"You assumed."
"I know."
"No, Dad. That's the problem. You've been assuming everything."
He closed his eyes.
"You're right."
I wasn't prepared for that.
For months, any criticism of Shirley had become an argument.
Dad defended her.
Made excuses.
Told me grief was making me resistant to change.
Now he looked defeated.
I pulled the box toward me.
Inside were pieces of my mother.
Not metaphorically.
Actually.
Her sewing scissors.
Her measuring tape.
Three pattern books.
The little red tomato-shaped pin cushion I'd played with as a child until she made me stop because I kept dropping needles.
Underneath them was a stack of photographs.
I recognized some immediately.
Mom and me at the beach.
Mom holding me on my first day of kindergarten.
Our last Christmas together.
Photos that had once been framed around the house.
"They weren't donated," I whispered.
Dad shook his head.
I searched deeper.
Mom's blue cardigan.
Her favorite scarf.
A small jewelry box.
"Why would Shirley hide these?"
Dad said nothing.
Then I saw the envelope.
My name was written on the front.
EMMA.
Mom's handwriting.
I stopped breathing.
Dad saw it too.
"What is that?"
"I don't know."
My fingers shook as I picked it up.
The envelope had already been opened.
Not by me.
The seal was torn.
I looked at Dad.
His face changed.
"I've never seen that."
"Someone has."
We both knew who.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
I unfolded it carefully.
It was a note from Mom.
Not long.
Just a few paragraphs.
Emma,
If you're reading this before prom, then somebody cheated because I specifically told your father to give it to you that morning.
Despite everything happening around me, I laughed.
That sounded exactly like her.
I kept reading.
I won't be there to tell you you're beautiful, so I'm putting it in writing. You are. But more importantly, you are kind, stubborn, brave, funny, and much stronger than you currently know.
The dress isn't supposed to make you remember that I died.
It's supposed to remind you that I was here.
Wear it. Dance too much. Eat something messy. Stay out later than your father wants. And please don't spend the whole night being sentimental about me.
Live.
Love,
Mom
P.S. If Michael cries when he sees you, tell him I predicted it.
My vision blurred.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Dad was crying openly.
"She gave that to me."
I looked up.
"What?"
"The week before she died."
His voice broke.
"She made me promise I'd keep it safe until prom."
A chill went through me.
"Where did you keep it?"
"In my desk."
"And then?"
"I don't know."
"You forgot?"
He winced.
"I forgot the letter existed."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
"You forgot?"
"Emma—"
"She trusted you with one thing!"
"I know."
"No, you don't!"
My voice echoed through the kitchen.
"She knew she wasn't going to see me tonight, so she wrote me a letter, and you let Shirley open it and hide it in a garage!"
Dad's shoulders collapsed.
"I failed you."
I stopped.
There was no excuse attached.
No "but."
No "you have to understand."
Just the truth.
It didn't erase anything.
But it changed the room.
Then headlights swept across the front windows.
A car door slammed.
Shirley.
Dad stood.
"Go upstairs."
"No."
"Emma."
"I'm done being sent away while adults decide what happens to Mom's things."
The front door opened.
Shirley walked in barefoot, carrying her heels.
She had changed out of the copied dress.
When she saw the box, she froze.
Dad pointed at it.
"What is this?"
Shirley's expression hardened.
"You went through my things?"
"Your things?"
His voice rose.
"These belonged to Caroline."
"You told me I could clean out the house."
"I told you we could decide together what to keep."
"Same difference."
"No."
Dad stepped toward her.
"It isn't."
I held up Mom's letter.
"And this?"
For half a second, guilt crossed Shirley's face.
Then it disappeared.
"I found it."
"In Dad's desk?"
She folded her arms.
"It would've upset you."
I stared at her.
"So you decided I shouldn't have it?"
"You were fragile."
"It was from my mother."
"And your mother was gone!"
The room went completely still.
Dad stared at Shirley.
She realized what she'd said.
But instead of apologizing, she doubled down.
"Someone had to help this family move forward."
I laughed bitterly.
"By throwing Mom away?"
"By making this house livable!"
"It was already livable."
"Not for me!"
There it was.
Finally.
Shirley's real grievance.
Not grief.
Not healing.
Not organization.
Competition.
I stepped closer.
"Because everywhere you looked, you saw her?"
Shirley's jaw tightened.
"You wouldn't understand."
"I understand perfectly."
I touched my own face.
"You saw her here too."
Shirley's eyes flicked toward Dad.
That tiny movement told me everything.
Dad saw it.
"Is that why you've been so hard on Emma?"
"I have not been hard on her."
"You criticize everything she does."
"Because you refuse to parent her!"
"I was grieving!"
"So was I!"
I stared at her.
"You were grieving my mother?"
"She was my best friend."
"Then why did you marry her husband six months after she died?"
Shirley went pale.
Dad said my name sharply.
"Emma."
"No. Everybody keeps acting like I'm not allowed to ask."
I looked directly at Shirley.
"Were you in love with Dad before Mom died?"
Silence.
Dad's face changed.
He looked at Shirley.
She looked away.
And suddenly my anger turned into something colder.
"Dad?"
He stared at her.
"Answer her."
Shirley shook her head.
"This is disgusting."
"Answer the question."
"Michael, don't let a teenager interrogate me."
"I'm asking now."
Shirley's eyes flashed.
"Fine."
She threw her heels onto the floor.
"Did I have feelings for you? Yes."
Dad took a step backward.
My stomach dropped.
She continued rapidly.
"But I never acted on them while Caroline was alive."
"Did Mom know?" I asked.
"No."
"How long?"
Shirley didn't answer.
Dad's voice became dangerously quiet.
"How long?"
"Years."
He looked sick.
Shirley reached toward him.
"Michael, nothing happened."
He moved away from her.
"So when you were sitting beside my wife's hospital bed..."
"Don't."
"When you were bringing food into this house..."
"Michael."
"You wanted her husband?"
Shirley's eyes filled.
"I loved both of you differently."
I almost laughed.
Dad didn't.
He walked toward the counter and gripped the edge.
For the first time, I wondered if he had been manipulated too.
Not innocent.
Never innocent.
He had made choices.
But maybe Shirley had entered our grief with intentions neither of us understood.
I looked at the storage box.
"Why did you keep Mom's things?"
Shirley went quiet.
"If you wanted them gone, why not donate them?"
She stared at me.
Then Dad answered for her.
"Because she knew I'd ask."
Shirley looked at him.
He continued.
"If she donated everything at once, I'd notice."
His face twisted.
"So she hid it first."
Shirley rolled her eyes.
"This is becoming ridiculous."
Dad pointed toward the front door.
"Leave."
Her face went blank.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"This is my house."
"No."
His voice shook.
"It's Caroline's house. Mine and Caroline's. And I let you make Emma feel like a guest in it."
Shirley stared.
"We're married."
"I know."
"You can't throw me out because your daughter had a tantrum at prom."
Dad's expression changed.
"This isn't about prom anymore."
She laughed.
"Of course it is."
"No. It's about the fact that my daughter stopped feeling safe in her own home and I was too desperate not to be alone to see it."
I stared at him.
Those words hit somewhere deep.
Shirley grabbed her purse.
"You'll regret this."
Dad nodded slowly.
"Maybe."
She looked at me.
Hatred filled her expression.
"You've wanted this from the beginning."
"No."
I held Mom's letter.
"I wanted my dad."
For once, Shirley had no answer.
She left.
The front door slammed.
Dad and I stood in silence.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He showed me.
A bank notification.
A transfer request had been initiated from the savings account he and Shirley shared.
Almost the entire balance.
My stomach tightened.
Dad immediately opened his banking app.
"She can't do that, can she?"
"It's a joint account."
His hands moved quickly.
Then he stopped.
There was another notification.
A charge from a storage facility outside town.
Recurring monthly payment.
Dad frowned.
"We don't have a storage unit."
I thought about the boxes hidden in the garage.
About Mom's missing belongings.
About the copied dress.
"What if there's more?"
Dad looked at me.
At 12:17 in the morning, still wearing my prom dress, I climbed into Dad's car.
We drove across town beneath yellow streetlights.
The storage facility sat behind a closed gas station.
Dad entered the access code listed in an old email connected to the charge.
The gate opened.
Unit 214.
He unlocked it.
The metal door rattled upward.
And I stopped breathing.
Inside were dozens of boxes.
Mom's name was written across almost every one.
Furniture.
Photographs.
Clothes.
Keepsakes.
Things Shirley had told us were gone forever.
But in the center of the storage unit sat something else.
A large white garment box.
On top of it was an invoice.
Dad picked it up.
The tailor's name matched the prom-dress receipt.
But this invoice wasn't for one dress.
It was for three.
May you like
And one of them had been ordered months before my mother died.
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