The key fit a tiny lock hidden beneath the rear molding.
A narrow drawer slid open.
Inside was one final envelope.
Three names were written on it.
EVELYN.
SYLVIE.
MARISA.
Mom began crying before we opened it.
The letter was short.
Grandma’s handwriting wandered slightly.
My girls,
If all three of you are reading this together, then perhaps Robert finally failed to divide what he could not control.
We looked at one another.
Evelyn, you were the first brilliant young woman I ever met who apologized for being brilliant.
Stop apologizing.
Mom covered her mouth.
Sylvie, you inherited more from your mother than either of you realizes.
Do not make the mistake of thinking strength means you never need anyone.
My eyes blurred.
Then:
Marisa, they will call you the easy child until you believe ease is all you are capable of.
Prove them wrong.
Marisa sobbed.
And finally:
