Chapter 4: The Night My Mother Died
My father didn't answer me.
He stood in the dressmaker's studio, staring at the anonymous message on my phone as though the words had opened a door he had spent years trying to keep shut.
Outside, traffic moved along the street. A delivery truck rattled over a pothole. Somewhere behind us, a sewing machine hummed.
Ordinary sounds.
An ordinary afternoon.
Yet the man who had raised me was suddenly a stranger.
“Dad,” I said again.
“What happened the night Mom died?””
He slipped my phone back into my hand.
“Not here.””
“Why not?””
“Because this isn't something I want to explain while we're standing in a shop.””
The dressmaker, Mrs. Calloway, quietly stepped away from the table.
“I'll give you two a moment,” she said.
When she disappeared into the back room, I placed the brass key beside the ruined dress.
“Someone knows about this key. Someone knows about Margaret. And someone thinks you did something the night Mom died.””
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Emily, that message could have been written by anyone.””
“Then tell me the truth.””
He looked at the key again.
Finally, he pulled a chair toward the table and sat down.
“The night your mother died, I wasn't at the hospital when she took her last breath.””
I blinked.
“What?””
“I was driving to Chicago.””
“Why?””
“Your mother called me from the hospital shortly after midnight. She said she needed me to retrieve something from her studio. Something she'd forgotten to put in the safe.””
I stared at him.
“You left Mom alone?””
His face crumpled.
“She told me to go. She said she had already arranged for a nurse to stay with her. I argued with her, Emily. I told her I wasn't leaving.””
He rubbed his palms against his knees.
“She took my hand and said, 'Daniel, if you love me, you'll trust me to make this decision.''”
My throat tightened.
“And you went?””
“Yes.””
He looked down.
“I thought I would be back before morning. I thought we had more time.””
The words hung between us.
“How long were you gone?””
“Four hours.””
“And when you came back?””
“Your mother was gone.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
For years, I had imagined my father's final moments with Mom. I had pictured him holding her hand, whispering that he loved her, promising to take care of me.
I had never imagined her dying without him beside her.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because you were twelve. You had already lost so much. I couldn't bear to tell you that I had left her.””
I stood so abruptly that the chair scraped the floor.
“So you let me believe you were with her?””
“I never said I was there.””
“You let me believe it!””
My voice cracked.
“Every birthday, every Christmas, every time I asked you what Mom said before she died, you told me she loved me. You told me she wasn't afraid. You let me picture you holding her hand.””
Tears filled his eyes.
“She did love you. And she wasn't afraid.””
“That isn't the point!””
My shout echoed through the little studio.
Mrs. Calloway appeared in the doorway but stopped when she saw our faces.
Dad rose slowly.
“You're right,” he said.
“It isn't.””
I had expected him to defend himself. To explain that he had done his best. To remind me that he had sacrificed everything to raise me.
Instead, he stood there and accepted my anger.
That somehow made it worse.
“What was in the studio?”” I asked.
He hesitated.
“I don't know.””
“You went all the way to Chicago for something you didn't know about?””
“Your mother said it was in a locked cabinet. She gave me the location and the combination. But when I arrived, the cabinet had already been opened.””
“By whom?””
“I never found out.””
I looked at the brass key.
“Was this the key?””
“No. The cabinet used a combination lock.””
“Then what did you bring back?””
Dad stared at the window.
“Nothing.””
I felt cold.
“Nothing?””
“The cabinet was empty. I searched the entire studio, then called your mother's attorney. Margaret told me to return to the hospital immediately.””
I sat down again.
“Did Mom die before you got back?””
He nodded.
“And the police?””
“There was no reason to call them. Your mother was dying of cancer. Her doctors had expected her death for weeks.””
“Did you tell Margaret the cabinet was empty?””
“Yes.””
“Did she believe you?””
Dad looked at me.
“Not at first.””
My hands began to shake.
Before I could ask another question, my phone vibrated again.
The same unknown number.
*Ask him about the blue envelope.*
I turned the screen toward Dad.
His face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You know what that means,” I whispered.
He didn't answer.
“Dad!””
He reached for the phone, then stopped himself.
“The blue envelope was something your mother asked me to retrieve from the studio.””
“And you said it was gone.””
“It was.””
“Did you ever find it?””
He stared at the floor.
“No.””
I couldn't believe him.
“Then why do you look like you're lying?””
He closed his eyes.
“Because there was something else I didn't tell you.””
I waited.
“On the way back from Chicago, I received a phone call. The caller said that if I wanted you to grow up safely, I should stop asking questions about the missing documents.””
My stomach dropped.
“Who called?””
“I never found out. The number was blocked.””
“And you didn't tell the police?””
“I was terrified. You were twelve. Your mother was dead. I didn't know whether the threat was real, but I couldn't risk anything happening to you.””
I stared at him.
All those years, I had believed our family had fallen apart because Mom died and Dad eventually remarried.
Now I wondered whether someone had been quietly shaping our lives from the beginning.
“Why did you marry Victoria?”” I asked.
He looked at me, startled.
“What does that have to do with anything?””
“Mom knew her. She warned us about her. And now someone is telling me to ask about the night Mom died. Why would you marry the woman Mom feared?””
Dad shook his head.
“Victoria never told me she knew your mother.””
“You never asked?””
“I had no reason to connect them.””
“Until now?””
He looked away.
I picked up the key.
“I'm going to the studio.””
“No.””
The answer came too quickly.
I stared at him.
“Why?””
“Because we don't know what's there.””
“Exactly. We don't know.””
“Emily, please.””
His voice was desperate.
“Let me handle this.””
I almost laughed.
For three years, he had asked me to let him handle things. Each time, I had ended up alone in my bedroom, trying to understand why Samantha could hurt me without consequences.
Not anymore.
“You don't get to decide what I can know about my mother.””
He flinched.
I immediately regretted the pain in his expression, but I didn't take the words back.
Mrs. Calloway approached the table.
“I can help you repair the dress,” she said gently.
“The outer skirt will take time, but the damage isn't beyond repair. The original design is still intact.””
I looked at the gown.
“Can you make it wearable by tomorrow morning?””
She examined the torn sections again.
“If you can accept a few visible seams, yes. I won't pretend the damage never happened. But I can make it beautiful again.””
I nodded.
“Please do.””
Dad reached for his wallet.
“I'll cover whatever it costs.””
“No,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I'll pay for it.””
“Emily, you don't have to—”
“I know. But I want to.””
I took out my savings card.
The money had been set aside for graduation photographs, a celebratory dinner, and the deposit on my first apartment after college.
I used it to pay Mrs. Calloway.
As she wrote the receipt, Dad stood quietly beside the door.
For the first time, he seemed to understand that I wasn't waiting for him to rescue me.
I was learning how to rescue myself.
We left the studio without another word about the key.
In the car, Dad drove toward home, but I kept my eyes on the brass tag in my palm.
Studio. Safe 17.
My mother had hidden it inside the dress she designed for my future.
Someone had known it was there.
Someone had tried to warn me away from Margaret.
And someone had sent a message about the night Mom died.
When we reached the house, Victoria was waiting in the driveway.
She stood beside Dad's car, holding a white envelope.
The moment she saw me, she walked toward the passenger window.
“Emily, we need to talk.””
I lowered the window halfway.
“About what?””
She held up the envelope.
“About your mother.””
Dad stepped out of the car.
“Victoria, go inside.””
She ignored him.
“I know you've been to Margaret's office. I know she showed you documents that were never meant for you to see.””
I stared at her.
“They were documents about my mother.””
“And that is precisely why you should listen to me.””
She pushed the envelope through the open window.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed my mother standing outside the hospital on the night she died.
Beside her was a man I had never seen before.
On the back, someone had written a sentence in black ink.
*Your father wasn't the only person who left Elena alone that night.*
I looked up.
Victoria was watching me.
For the first time since she had entered our home, she wasn't pretending to be concerned.
She was afraid.
“Who is that man?”” I asked.
Victoria glanced at Dad.
May you like
Then she whispered, “The man who was supposed to take your mother's secrets to the grave.””
And before either of us could stop her, she walked away.
