Chapter 5 - The Blue Folder
We went to Mom’s house the following morning.
Ethan drove.
Brooke offered to come, then understood when I said this part needed to belong to the sisters.
Paige was waiting on the porch.
She wore jeans, an oversized sweater, and no makeup.
Without the perfect curls and careful expression, she looked exhausted.
“Do you have a key?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Vivian told me the locks had been changed.”
“They haven’t.”
Another small sentence.
Another piece of the wall between us coming loose.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of cedar and the lemon cleaner Mom used on everything.
Her reading glasses still sat in the ceramic dish by the door.
I had left them there because moving them felt like accepting something I could not bear.
Paige stopped when she saw them.
“Oh.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
We stood beside that little dish until Ethan quietly went into the kitchen to fill the kettle.
The desk was built into an alcove near the pantry.
Mom kept stamps in the top drawer, takeout menus in the second, and important papers in a chaos she understood better than anyone.
The blue folder lay beneath an appliance manual.
It was not hidden.
It had simply remained in a place neither of us had known to search.
Paige pulled out a chair.
I opened it.
Inside were copies of the will, bank statements, a handwritten inventory, and a letter addressed to both of us.
There was also a business card.
Margaret Ellis.
Estate attorney.
We had never heard her name.
Vivian had given us the name of a different office.
I felt my pulse begin to beat in my throat.
Ethan set down the tea.
“What did you find?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
We read the will slowly.
After specific small gifts and ordinary expenses, the estate was to be divided equally between Paige and me.
The house.
The savings.
The proceeds from Mom’s sewing equipment, if neither daughter wanted to keep it.
No special reward for being responsible.
No punishment for struggling.
Just equal shares.
Paige covered her eyes.
I put a hand on her back.
This time, she did not pull away.
The joint letter explained the folder.
Mom had written that illness made her tired and forgetful, so she wanted us to have copies of everything.
She asked us to contact Margaret directly if any information seemed confusing.
Then came a sentence that made my stomach turn.
Vivian has offered to handle practical matters, but neither of you should be discouraged from asking questions.
Paige read it twice.
“Did Mom know?”
“Maybe she knew we needed permission.”
We checked the statements next.
The last balance shown was higher than the figure Vivian had mentioned after the funeral.
Much higher.
But the copies were months old.
Medical bills could have changed things.
Funeral expenses could have changed things.
I reminded myself of that before fear became certainty.
“We call the attorney,” I said.
“Right now?”
“It’s Sunday. We leave a message.”
Paige nodded.
While I called, she walked into Mom’s sewing room.
I found her there afterward.
The old machine sat beneath its cloth cover. On the wall, Mom had pinned a yellowing newspaper photograph of Paige standing beside a school theater production.
She had designed the costumes at seventeen.
I had forgotten that picture.
Paige had not.
“She kept it.”
“Of course she did.”
“She never told me.”
I looked at the photograph.
Mom had praised Paige’s beauty so loudly that sometimes she forgot to praise her work.
That was another kind of loss.
Ethan waited downstairs while we opened drawers and found thread, measuring tapes, and patterns softened by years of handling.
At the bottom of one drawer lay the original order form for the white dress.
Paige touched the paper.
“Did you know she ordered it for me?”
“Yes.”
“Before you sent it?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“That makes it worse.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
“You took something she wanted to give me and turned it into a lesson.”
The words landed hard.
Because they were true.
“I thought I could use it to end something between us.”
“You used Mom.”
I sat on the edge of the sewing chair.
“I did.”
Paige’s eyes filled.
I waited for anger.
For the familiar sharp remark.
Instead, she folded the order form carefully.
“We’ve both done things we need to stop explaining away.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Downstairs, my phone vibrated.
A voicemail notification.
Margaret Ellis had returned my call.
Her message was brief.
“Clara, I’m glad you reached out. I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with both beneficiaries for months.”
May you like
I looked at Paige.
Then I played the message again.
