Chapter 7 - THE PINK FOLDER
My mother denied having it.
For eleven minutes.
Then Dad drove to their house, walked into the attic, and found it inside a plastic storage bin labeled TAXES 2019.
He brought it to me himself.
Mom followed.
She stood at the curb.
I did not invite her inside.
“I was protecting you,” she said.
“From my daughter?”
“You were barely functioning.”
“So you stole her things.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“Then why hide them?”
Her face hardened.
“Because some of what she wrote would have destroyed you.”
That frightened me.
“What?”
She looked toward Dad.
He said:
“Margaret, enough.”
For once, she stopped.
I took the folder inside.
Grace sat with me.
So did Claire? No—my sister didn't exist in this story; I had no siblings. My boys were upstairs with our neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez.
I opened the first page.
Drawings.
Horses.
Cartoons.
One terrible portrait of me with purple hair.
Then questions.
Will my brothers forget me?
Will Mom still make pancakes?
Does dying hurt?
I cried quietly.
Then came letters.
One to Ben.
One to Jamie.
One to Grace.
One to Daniel.
I stopped.
“Did he get this?”
Grace shook her head.
Apparently Mom had taken all of them.
I opened Daniel’s letter.
Dad,
I know you’re busy.
Kids always know when adults lie.
I laughed through tears.
Then:
Please don’t make Mom do everything after I’m gone.
She’s tired even when she says she isn’t.
Then:
Ben needs help with math and Jamie lies about brushing his teeth.
You have to check.
Simple.
Practical.
Sophie.
Then:
And don’t ask me again where they should live. That’s grown-up stuff.
My chest tightened.
She had understood exactly what Daniel was doing.
Then her final sentence:
If you want them to live with you more, come see them more now.
I covered my face.
Grace held my shoulder.
There was another letter.
To Grandma.
Mom had read it.
I knew from the crease.
Grandma,
Mom says you love me even when you don’t come.
I hope that’s true.
My stomach twisted.
Then:
I’m not mad that hospitals scare you.
But Mom is scared too and she still stays.
I stopped reading.
My mother had called this destructive to me.
No.
It was destructive to her.
That was why she hid it.
The final letter had no name.
Just:
FOR LATER.
I opened it.
If Mom makes a book, tell her not to make everybody villains.
My breath caught.
Some people are just bad at hard things.
Then:
But if they get better later, they still have to say sorry for the real thing first.
I smiled through tears.
Nine years old.
Clearer than every adult around her.
Then the last line:
Grace knows where the other one is.
I looked up.
Grace went pale.
“What other one?”
She swallowed.
“Sophie made a video.”
My heart stopped.
“Of what?”
Grace looked toward the pink folder.
“The day your mother finally came to the hospital.”
I stared.
“My mother said she never went.”
Grace shook her head.
“She did.”
“When?”
May you like
“Four days before Sophie died.”
And whatever happened during that visit had made Sophie ask Grace to hide the recording from everyone.
