Chapter 5: My Brother Knew More Than He Admitted
Simon answered on the fourth ring.
“What happened?””
I stared at the wooden box resting on the passenger seat.
“I'm coming over.””
A pause.
“Mason, what's wrong?””
“I need you to see something.””
“Is this about Beatrice?””
“Yes.””
He exhaled sharply.
“I told you not to go.””
“I know.””
“Did she insult you?””
“That's not the point.””
“Did she throw you out?””
“Simon.””
“What?””
“I think Dad left us something.””
The line went silent.
I waited.
Then Simon asked, very carefully, “What kind of something?””
“A box. It has our names on it.””
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“Where did you find it?””
“In the storage room.””
“Did Beatrice know you had it?””
“Yes.””
“What did she say?””
“She tried to take it away.””
I heard him inhale.
“Don't open it.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“Don't open it until I get there.””
“Why?””
“Because I need to see it first.””
His voice was so serious that I sat up straighter.
“Simon, what's going on?””
“Just bring it over.””
“Do you know something about this?””
“No.””
The answer came too quickly.
I gripped the phone.
“Don't lie to me.””
“I'm not.””
“You just went quiet when I told you about the box. Then you asked exactly where I found it. Now you're telling me not to open it. What do you know?””
He sighed.
“I'm at home. Come over, and we'll talk.””
He ended the call before I could respond.
For several seconds, I sat in the driveway outside Beatrice's house, staring at my phone.
My brother had spent years insisting that we should stop trying to win Beatrice's affection.
He had always been the practical one, the person who recognized when a relationship was beyond repair.
But his reaction to the box had unsettled me.
He hadn't sounded surprised.
He had sounded afraid.
I started the car.
The drive to Simon's apartment took twenty-five minutes, but it felt longer than the journey to Beatrice's house.
Every traffic light gave me another opportunity to think.
What if the box contained documents about our adoption?
What if it contained a letter from our biological mother?
What if it contained something that proved Kenneth had known more than he ever told us?
I tried to imagine the possibilities, but each one led to another question.
By the time I arrived, my hands were trembling.
Simon opened the door before I knocked.
He was wearing an old gray T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled as though he had been running his hands through it.
He looked first at me.
Then at the box.
“Come inside.””
I followed him into the living room.
His apartment was as neat as always, with engineering textbooks arranged on a shelf and a half-finished model sitting on his desk.
Simon had always liked things that made sense.
Machines followed rules.
Structures either held or collapsed.
Problems could be broken into pieces and solved.
People were different.
Families were worse.
I placed the box on his coffee table.
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he walked to the kitchen and poured two glasses of water.
I watched him return.
“Are you going to tell me what's going on?””
He handed me a glass.
“Sit down.””
“Simon.””
“Please.””
Something in his voice made me obey.
He sat opposite me and stared at the box for a long time.
Then he asked, “What exactly did you hear?””
I told him everything.
I repeated Beatrice's words about the stories she had told us.
I told him about Grandma Rose asking whether the boys would ever discover what really happened to their mother.
I explained how Beatrice had admitted that Kenneth wanted to leave us the truth.
And finally, I told him about the letter.
When I finished, Simon had gone pale.
He leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered.
“You believe me?””
He looked at me sharply.
“Of course I believe you.””
Relief washed through me.
Then I noticed that he still wasn't looking at the box.
“Simon, what aren't you telling me?””
He stood and walked to the window.
For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse to answer.
Then he said, “When I was twenty-one, I found something in Dad's old papers.””
My heart lurched.
“What?””
“A photograph.””
“What photograph?””
He turned around.
“It was of a woman holding two babies.””
I stared at him.
“Us?””
“Yes.””
“Who was the woman?””
“I don't know.””
“Was it our biological mother?””
“I think so.””
I rose from the sofa.
“You think so? Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I wasn't sure.””
“You could have shown me!””
“I was twenty-one, Mason. I was trying to finish college, pay rent, and figure out what to do with my life. I found a photograph of a woman I'd never seen before, holding two babies who looked like us. There was no name on the back.””
“You could have asked Beatrice.””
“I did.””
My stomach tightened.
“What did she say?””
“She told me it was a photograph of a distant relative who had died before we were adopted.””
“Did you believe her?””
“No.””
The answer was immediate.
Simon sat down again.
“I kept looking through the papers. I found a hospital envelope, some forms, and a piece of paper with a date written on it. But the documents were incomplete. Some pages were missing, and the envelope was empty.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I didn't have proof of anything. And because I was afraid.””
I stared at him.
Simon rarely admitted to being afraid.
He had been the one who stood between us and Beatrice whenever she became cruel.
He had been the one who told me to stop apologizing.
He had been the one who encouraged me to leave home and build a life that didn't depend on her approval.
Now he was telling me that he had spent years carrying questions of his own.
“What were you afraid of?”” I asked.
He looked down at his hands.
“That the photograph meant nothing. That I would start asking questions and end up discovering that everything we'd been told was true.””
I sat beside him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “Did you ever see the photograph again?””
“No.””
“Did you keep it?””
“I tried to find it later, but it was gone.””
“Gone?””
“Someone had removed the entire folder.””
We looked at the box together.
I could feel the shape of our childhood changing in my mind.
Simon had found evidence that our history might be different from the story we had been told.
He had tried to investigate.
And someone had made the evidence disappear.
“Do you think Beatrice took it?”” I asked.
“I don't know.””
“But you suspect her.””
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
I leaned forward and touched the wooden lid.
“Then let's open this.””
Simon shook his head.
“Not yet.””
“Why?””
“Because if Beatrice was willing to hide a photograph, she might have hidden other things. We need to know what we're looking for.””
I stared at him.
“Dad wrote our names on it.””
“I can see that.””
“Then why are we sitting here arguing about whether to open it?””
“Because you heard her say something else, didn't you?””
I frowned.
“What?””
“That Dad wanted to leave us the truth, but she made sure he never got the chance.””
“Yes.””
Simon swallowed.
“What if the box isn't the only thing she hid?””
His words settled over me.
I thought about the storage room, the filing cabinet, and the letter Beatrice had admitted keeping.
What if there were other documents?
Other letters?
Other pieces of our lives that had been deliberately withheld?
I looked at my brother.
“We have to find out.””
He nodded slowly.
Then he reached for the box.
We examined the clasp, the hinges, and the tiny keyhole. Simon found a narrow seam beneath the lid, but there was no obvious way to force it open without damaging the wood.
He turned the box over.
On the bottom, nearly hidden beneath a layer of dust, was another inscription.
Not our names this time.
A date.
October 14.
Simon stared at it.
“Does that mean anything to you?””
I shook my head.
It didn't correspond to our birthdays, the date of our adoption, or Kenneth's death.
We searched our memories for another possibility.
Nothing.
Then Simon ran his thumb along the edge of the box and found a small metal plate attached to the underside.
He tilted it toward the light.
A series of letters and numbers had been engraved into it.
I leaned closer.
“Is that a serial number?””
“Maybe.””
He examined it carefully.
“No. Look at the last four digits.””
I squinted.
The digits were familiar.
They matched the last four numbers of an old account number printed on a bank statement I had once seen among Kenneth's belongings.
“Could it be connected to Dad's bank?”” I asked.
Simon shook his head.
“I don't know. But if it is, the date might be important.””
He pulled out his phone and opened a notes app.
We recorded the inscription, photographed the box, and made a list of everything we remembered from the storage room.
It was the kind of methodical process Simon used when solving a complicated engineering problem.
But this wasn't a machine.
It was our family.
And the more we examined the evidence, the more convinced I became that someone had spent years making sure we couldn't put the pieces together.
After a while, Simon leaned back.
“We need to talk to Grandma Rose.””
“I agree.””
“Alone.””
I hesitated.
“You think she'll tell us?””
“I think she's tired of lying.””
I thought about the look on her face when I had asked about our biological mother.
She had seemed close to telling me something.
Something important.
Then Beatrice had appeared, and the moment had vanished.
“There's something else,” I said.
Simon waited.
“When I was leaving, Beatrice told me that if I opened the box, I might learn things about Dad I wouldn't like.””
His expression darkened.
“She said that?””
“Yes.””
“What exactly did she mean?””
“I don't know.””
Simon looked down at the box.
“Maybe she wants us to doubt him.””
“Why would she do that?””
“Because Dad is the one person we still trust.””
I felt a chill move through me.
It was such a simple explanation that I couldn't dismiss it.
Beatrice had spent years reminding us that our biological mother had abandoned us.
She had spent years making herself the person we supposedly owed for saving us.
Kenneth had been the exception.
He had loved us without conditions.
If Beatrice could make us question him, she might be able to make us question everything else.
But what if there was more to it?
What if Kenneth had known something we didn't?
What if the truth wasn't as simple as Beatrice being cruel?
I looked at Simon.
“Do you think Dad could have lied to us?””
He was silent for a long time.
Then he said, “I think Dad loved us.””
“That isn't what I asked.””
“I know.””
He took a breath.
“I don't want to believe he lied. But I also don't want to spend another twenty years believing something just because it makes me feel better.””
I looked away.
It was the most honest thing he could have said.
For years, I had used Kenneth's love as proof that our childhood had contained something good.
Now I was beginning to understand that love didn't necessarily mean he had told us everything.
Perhaps he had been trying to protect us.
Perhaps he had been afraid.
Perhaps he had made a decision that he believed was right but that had left us with unanswered questions.
We couldn't know until we found the truth.
Simon picked up the box again.
“We're going back tomorrow.””
“To Beatrice's house?””
“To the storage room. We need to see whether there are other documents. And we need to talk to Rose before Beatrice gets a chance to change her mind.””
I nodded.
Then my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
I almost ignored it, but a message appeared on the screen.
Mason, this is Rose. Please don't tell Beatrice I contacted you. There is something you and Simon need to know about the night Kenneth died. Meet me tomorrow morning, alone.
I read it twice.
Simon leaned toward me.
“What is it?””
I handed him the phone.
He read the message, then looked up.
“The night Dad died?””
I nodded.
“Why would Grandma want to talk about that?””
Neither of us had an answer.
But as I stared at the message, I remembered Beatrice's words in the storage room.
Not everything he told you was true.
For the first time, I wondered whether the secret surrounding our adoption had been only the beginning.
Perhaps the truth about our mother was connected to the truth about Kenneth's final days.
Perhaps the letter in the wooden box contained something that would change the way we remembered our father.
And perhaps Grandma Rose had been waiting twenty years for the right moment to tell us.
I typed a reply.
I'll be there.
Then I looked at Simon.
“We're going to find out what happened.””
He nodded.
Neither of us noticed the second message that arrived a moment later.
May you like
It appeared beneath Rose's first text, sent from the same number.
Whatever you do, don't let Beatrice find the box.
