“Ethan, do you understand what the problem is?”
He looked at me.
“I keep deciding what other people should know based on how I think they’ll react.”
“Yes.”
“And then I tell myself I’m protecting them.”
“Yes.”
“But really I’m protecting myself from uncomfortable conversations.”
I studied him.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
Saying it seemed painful.
But necessary.
We sat in silence for several minutes.
Finally, I asked, “What happens now?”
“I tell Rebecca.”
“Today?”
“If she’ll talk to me.”
“She will.”
“You sound confident.”
“I’ve spent more time with your sister in the last forty-eight hours than I did in the previous four years.”
That made him smile slightly.
Then the smile disappeared.
“She’ll be angry.”
“She might be.”
“I hate when Rebecca’s angry with me.”
“I know.”
He laughed softly.
“I’m beginning to hear how often I say that.”
I reached for the envelope.
“This was written eighteen months ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why was it in your mother’s attic?”
“I put it there.”
“Why?”
“Because I was cleaning out Dad’s desk and found the old estate documents. I wrote that letter that night.”
“Why not keep it here?”
“Because I thought if I kept it somewhere I would eventually find it again, I’d force myself to deal with it.”
I stared at him.
“That is an astonishingly elaborate method of procrastination.”
He laughed.
A real laugh this time.
“I know.”
I smiled despite myself.
For the first time since the wedding, the tension between us loosened.
Not disappeared.
Loosened.
“Call Rebecca,” I said.
His smile faded.
“Now?”
– Ahora.
Cogió su teléfono.
Rebecca respondió inmediatamente.
– Hola -dijo Ethan-.
Pause.
“Claire found the letter.”
Another pause.
Su cara se apretó.
– Sí.
Él me miró.
– No, ella lo sabe.
Una pausa más larga.
“Tengo que decirte algo sobre la voluntad de papá”.
No podía oír las palabras de Rebecca, pero los hombros de Ethan bajaron como si se estuviera preparando.
– Sí.
Él escuchó.
Entonces dijo la sentencia más dura que le había oído decir.
“Ayudé a mamá a ocultarte algo”.
Esa noche, Rebecca vino.
Lo mismo hizo Margaret.
No fue una confrontación familiar dramática.
Nadie gritó.
No se cierran las puertas.
Eso casi lo hace más difícil.
Nos sentamos alrededor de nuestra pequeña mesa de comedor mientras Ethan explicaba lo que había sucedido once años antes.
Rebecca escuchaba sin interrupción.
Cuando terminó, miró a Margaret.
– ¿Lo sabías?
Margaret asintió.
Los ojos de Rebecca se llenaron.
– ¿Por qué?
La voz de Margaret tembló.
“Tenía miedo”.
“Of me?”
– No.
“Then what?”
“De perder la casa”.
Rebecca se inclinó hacia atrás.
“So you decided I couldn’t know I owned part of it.”
“I convinced myself it was temporary.”
“For eleven years?”
Margaret lowered her eyes.
Rebecca stood and walked toward the kitchen.
I started to follow.
Ethan stopped me gently.
“Give her a minute.”
That was unusual.
El viejo Ethan se habría apresurado tras ella, desesperado por reparar la sensación de inmediato.
This Ethan remained seated.
Rebecca returned several minutes later holding a glass of water.
She sat.
“¿Quería papá que lo supiera?”
Margaret closed her eyes.
– Sí.
Rebecca nodded.
That seemed to hurt most.
Not the money.
The fact that her father’s wishes had been hidden.
“I want to see the will.”
“Of course,” Margaret said.
“And I want to speak to the attorney.”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t want either of you telling me what I should do with my share.”
Margaret nodded.
