“Boston?”
Victor frowned.
“What is she talking about?”
Maya exhaled.
“The fellowship is based there.”
“For how long?”
“Initially two years.”
“Two years?”
Brooke looked shocked.
“You’re moving?”
“In three weeks.”
Diane grabbed Maya’s elbow, then seemed to remember where they were and released it.
“You accepted a job across the country without discussing it with me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Maya almost gave the easy answer: because she was twenty-three and legally free to decide.
But that wasn’t the real answer.
“Because every important decision I’ve brought home has been treated like an inconvenience.”
Diane flinched.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
Maya’s voice remained calm.
“You gave my graduation pass away because Brooke might meet useful people.
This morning you locked me outside because my wet coat might ruin her pictures.”
People nearby had begun to notice.
Maya lowered her voice.
“I don’t want to fight here.”
Diane looked suddenly smaller.
“Come home tonight.”
Maya hesitated.
“I’ll come for my suitcases.”
“Your suitcases?”
“I’m moving out before Boston.”
That frightened Diane more than the fellowship announcement.
“Maya.”
“I’ll be there at seven.”
Then Maya followed Dr.
Ortiz toward the meeting.
At seven fifteen that evening, she returned home.
The storm had passed, leaving the neighborhood washed clean beneath pale sunlight.
Her three packed suitcases waited beside the stairs.
She had packed gradually for days, storing clothes and books in containers whenever no one was watching.
Victor was nowhere downstairs.
Brooke sat on the couch.
“Mom’s in your room,” she said.
Maya climbed the stairs.
Diane stood beside the bed holding a small wooden box.
Maya stopped.
She knew that box.
It had belonged to her father.
“Where did you find that?”
“Closet shelf.”
Maya crossed the room quickly.
“I thought we lost it when we moved.”
“We didn’t.”
Diane’s voice was barely audible.
Inside the box were photographs, train tickets, a broken wristwatch, and several cards written in her father’s slanted handwriting.
Then Diane removed a sealed envelope.
MAYA — WHEN YOU’RE READY.
Maya’s chest tightened.
“What is that?”
Diane sat on the edge of the bed.
“Your father wrote it before he died.”
Maya stared at her.
“Why do you have it?”
“He gave it to me.”
“Thirteen years ago?”
Diane nodded.
Maya’s anger returned so quickly it frightened her.
“You kept a letter from Dad for thirteen years?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
Diane looked at the envelope.
“Of what he said about me.”
Maya took the letter with shaking fingers.
The paper had yellowed slightly at the fold.
She opened it.
Her father’s handwriting filled two pages.
The first half was simple.
He told Maya he loved her.
He wrote that he was sorry he would miss her adulthood.
He mentioned their railway bridge and told her never to lose the curiosity that made her ask why things stayed standing.
Then the letter changed.
Her father explained that he had created an education trust for Maya from his life insurance and savings.
It was intended to help pay university expenses when she turned eighteen.
Maya stopped reading.
“What trust?”
Diane closed her eyes.
Maya looked at her.
“Mom.”
Diane’s face crumpled.
“There was money.”
Maya felt cold.
“How much?”
“About eighty thousand dollars originally.”
Maya stared at her.
She had worked twenty hours a week through university.
She had
