My mouth went dry.
“Did he repay her?”
I already knew the answer.
No.
Frank’s company survived, but barely.
Then my father got sick.
Mom needed money.
Frank began paying her back in small amounts.
According to the statements, he repaid almost half.
Then my parents separated.
Mom moved away with me.
Payments stopped.
The folder contained copies of returned checks.
Letters marked “ADDRESS UNKNOWN.”
My mother vanished from Frank and Linda’s lives.
Years passed.
The debt remained.
Then there was another letter.
From Linda.
“Patricia,”
“If Frank followed my instructions, you won’t read this until both he and I are gone.”
“I never met you as an adult.”
“But I knew you as a child.”
I nearly dropped the paper.
There was a photograph under it.
I was maybe five.
I was standing on the front porch of Frank’s house, holding a popsicle.
Linda sat beside me.
I remembered the dress I was wearing.
I remembered the popsicle.
I did not remember the house.
My chest tightened.
Linda’s letter continued.
Your mother was my friend.
Not my closest friend, but the kind of friend who arrived when closeness stopped mattering and need became more important.
Your mother saved this house.
