It bore Arthur’s signature.

And beneath it—

mine.

Again, it wasn’t my signature.

Someone had forged my name years before Priscilla’s Christmas spending began.

Dean stood.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

No.

It didn’t.

Priscilla hadn’t even been working in real estate seven years earlier.

And she couldn’t have stolen a blue box she didn’t know existed.

Unless someone had told her.

That afternoon, Dean received a call from Priscilla’s attorney.

She wanted to speak.

Not to him.

To me.

We met at Margaret’s office.

Priscilla entered wearing jeans and a gray sweater.

No makeup.

No jewelry.

She looked smaller.

But I refused to feel sorry for her.

She sat across from me.

“I stole from you,” she said.

Dean flinched.

“I used the card. I applied for the loan.”

“And my house?”

She shook her head.

“I helped with paperwork. But I didn’t start this.”

“Who did?”

She looked at Dean.

Then at me.

“You’re going to hate me.”

“I already don’t trust you. Hate would require energy I don’t intend to waste.”

Her eyes filled.

“Arthur contacted me before he died.”

My chair seemed to tilt beneath me.

“What?”

“Your husband.”

“Don’t say his name.”

“He came to my office seven years ago.”

“You didn’t work there.”

“I was an assistant then.”

Dean whispered, “You knew Grandpa’s account?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Priscilla reached into her bag.

Margaret immediately said, “Slowly.”

She removed a sealed envelope.

My name was written across the front.

Sylvia.

Arthur’s handwriting.

I knew every curve.

Every slant.

My husband had written my name thousands of times.

On birthday cards.

Grocery lists.

Anniversary notes.

I opened the envelope with shaking hands.

Inside was a letter.

Arthur explained the investment account.

He explained the blue box.

And then he explained something I never knew.

Twenty-nine years earlier, during a period when our marriage had nearly fallen apart, Arthur had fathered another child.

A daughter.

The mother had disappeared from his life before telling him she was pregnant.

Arthur discovered the truth decades later.

He had secretly begun searching for the daughter.

Before he could meet her, he became ill.

He moved the $412,806 into a trust intended to be divided between Dean and the daughter after my death because, as he wrote:

“I have already caused Sylvia enough pain. I cannot let the last years of our marriage become a punishment for a mistake I made long ago.”

I couldn’t continue.

Dean took the letter.

His face went white.

“Dad had a sister?”

“Has,” Priscilla whispered.

Dean looked up.

“What?”

Priscilla began crying again.

“She has a sister.”

My blood turned cold.

“Who?”

Priscilla looked directly at me.

“Me.”

Nobody moved.

Then I laughed.

A single broken sound.

“No.”