Grandma had encouraged me because she knew.
Dad had tried to sabotage me because he had done it before.
First to his wife.
Then to his daughter.
The pattern was not inheritance.
It was erasure.
I drove to my mother’s townhouse that evening.
She opened the door wearing jeans and no makeup.
She looked smaller.
Older.
“What happened?”
I held up the patent.
Her face collapsed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Wexford.”
She closed her eyes.
“Come in.”
“No.”
“Sylvie—”
“Did you create Grandma’s original model?”
She looked toward the hallway.
Then nodded.
“Say it.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I built the mathematics.”
I felt furious.
And devastated.
And strangely proud.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it became hers.”
“No.
You gave it away.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You think I don’t know that?”
There she was.
The woman I knew.
Anger protecting pain.
I took a breath.
