Emma and Lucas arrived in Zurich three months later.
The plan took weeks to arrange.
Passports.
School schedules.
Flights.
Permission forms.
Rebecca and David divided the cost.
I offered my apartment for free.
That was enough.
When Rebecca told me she had purchased half the tickets, I felt the strange impulse to congratulate her for paying ordinary parental expenses.
I wisely kept quiet.
Emma came through arrivals first, dragging an enormous suitcase.
Lucas followed with a backpack and the expression of a thirteen-year-old determined not to look impressed by international travel.
Then he saw me.
His face changed.
"Grandma!"
They both ran.
For several seconds I disappeared inside coats, arms and luggage.
I had not realized how much I missed the physical fact of them.
Emma smelled like airport perfume samples.
Lucas had somehow spilled something sticky on his sleeve.
Perfect.
"Welcome to Switzerland."
Emma looked around.
"This airport looks cleaner than our kitchen."
Lucas said, "Mom would kill you."
"She's on another continent."
"Good point."
I laughed.
On the train into the city, they stared through the windows.
Emma photographed everything.
Lucas pretended not to.
Then I noticed him quietly filming the lake.
At my apartment, they inspected every room.
Emma opened the refrigerator.
"This is all you have?"
"I live alone."
"You have mustard, cheese, yogurt and something green."
"Vegetables."
"Concerning."
Lucas discovered the balcony.
"Whoa."
From there the lake was visible between buildings.
"Grandma, you actually live here."
"I've been trying to tell you."
He looked at me.
"I thought maybe you were exaggerating."
"About Switzerland?"
"Old people exaggerate."
"Get off my balcony."
He laughed.
The first days were wonderfully ordinary.
We rode trams.
Visited museums.
Walked beside the lake.
Emma practiced German phrases from her phone and confidently mispronounced nearly all of them.
Lucas discovered Swiss chocolate and approached it like scientific research.
They met Ingrid.
Within fifteen minutes, she had them telling embarrassing stories about me.
Traitors.
On the fourth evening, rain kept us inside.
We ordered food and watched a movie.
Halfway through, Emma fell asleep.
Lucas remained awake.
He sat on the floor beside the sofa, turning his phone in his hands.
"Grandma?"
"Yes?"
"Can I ask something?"
The tone warned me.
"Of course."
"Did Mom steal from you?"
I paused the movie.
"Why are you asking?"
"Because I heard Dad say it."
My stomach tightened.
"When?"
"Before they sold the house."
"Did he say it to you?"
"No."
Of course.
Another overheard adult conversation.
"What exactly did you hear?"
Lucas stared at the phone.
"He said, 'You stole from your own mother.'"
I breathed slowly.
"Your parents had financial problems."
"I know."
"Some involved money that belonged to me."
"So yes."
I hated how cleanly children cut through euphemisms.
"Yes."
Lucas looked toward sleeping Emma.
"Why didn't you call the police?"
The question startled me.
"Because I didn't want to."
"If somebody steals twelve thousand dollars, isn't that a crime?"
He knew the amount.
That changed things.
"Who told you twelve thousand?"
His face tightened.
"Mom."
"When?"
"A while ago."
"Why?"
"Because I asked."
I nodded.
At least Rebecca had answered honestly.
"I chose to handle it privately."
"Because she's your daughter?"
"Partly."
"Would you have called the police if it was someone else?"
I thought.
"Probably."
Lucas absorbed that.
"Then family gets different rules."
"No."
"But you just said—"
"Family sometimes gets different choices. Not no consequences."
He frowned.
"What's the difference?"
I searched for words that would not turn a thirteen-year-old into a therapist.
"I decided that forcing your mother to repay money and change her behavior mattered more to me than punishing her through the legal system."
"That's still different."
"Yes."
He looked dissatisfied.
Then he asked the question that mattered.
"Did Mom steal from Grandpa too?"
I went still.
"What?"
"Before he died."
"Why would you ask that?"
Lucas looked frightened.
"I found something."
Not again.
"What?"
He reached for his backpack.
From an inside pocket, he removed a folded photocopy.
My heart began pounding.
It was a bank statement.
Old.
My husband's name appeared at the top.
So did mine.
Several transactions had been highlighted.
I recognized none of them.
"Where did you get this?"
"Mom's boxes."
My voice sharpened despite myself.
"Lucas, you and Emma need to stop going through your mother's private papers."
"I know."
"Then why did you bring this?"
"Because Grandpa's name was on it."
I unfolded the statement.
Three withdrawals.
Five thousand.
Three thousand.
Two thousand.
Ten thousand dollars total.
Dates from the final year of my husband's life.
My mouth went dry.
"Did you show this to your mother?"
"No."
"Your father?"
"No."
I looked closer.
The transactions were not ordinary withdrawals.
They were transfers to an account number I did not recognize.
"Lucas, go wake your sister."
His eyes widened.
"Am I in trouble?"
"No."
"But—"
"I need to make a phone call."
Emma woke confused.
I told both children that we were going to Ingrid's apartment for an hour.
"Why?" Emma asked.
"Because I need privacy for an adult conversation."
She saw the paper in my hand.
Her face changed.
"Oh no."
Exactly.
Ingrid answered immediately.
Five minutes later, the children were upstairs eating biscuits while I sat alone at my kitchen table.
I called Anel.
It was early morning for him.
He answered groggily.
"Julieta?"
"I need you to look at something."
I sent the photograph.
Silence.
Then he said, "Where did this come from?"
"Lucas."
"How did he get it?"
"Rebecca's papers."
Anel exhaled.
"These children are becoming an investigative service."
"This isn't funny."
"No."
His voice became professional.
"Do you recognize the destination account?"
"No."
"Could it be one of yours?"
"I don't think so."
"Let me check old records."
"Anel."
"Yes?"
"Could Rebecca have transferred this?"
"I don't know."
My chest tightened.
The dates mattered.
My husband had been seriously ill.
I had spent weeks moving between home and hospital.
Rebecca had access to our house.
Sometimes our paperwork.
Had she taken money years before the trading?
Had the entire pattern begun earlier than she admitted?
I called Rebecca.
She answered after three rings.
"Mom? Everything okay?"
"Do you recognize an account ending in 4472?"
Silence.
That silence told me enough to become afraid.
"Rebecca."
"Where did you get that number?"
My eyes closed.
"Answer."
"Mom."
"Did you transfer ten thousand dollars from your father's account during his final year?"
"No."
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly?
I no longer trusted my ability to judge.
"Then why do you recognize the number?"
She breathed slowly.
"Because it was mine."
My heart dropped.
"Rebecca."
"But I didn't transfer it."
"Ten thousand dollars went from our account into yours."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Dad did it."
I stopped.
"What?"
"He gave it to me."
"Why?"
Silence.
"Rebecca, why?"
"He told me not to tell you."
I almost laughed from disbelief.
"Your father secretly gave you ten thousand dollars?"
"Yes."
"While he was dying?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Rebecca began crying.
"He said he wanted me to have emergency money after he was gone."
I stood.
The room seemed too small.
"That makes no sense."
"I know."
"He was worried I was giving you too much."
"I know."
"So why would he secretly give you ten thousand?"
"Because it wasn't for me."
I froze.
"What?"
Rebecca's voice dropped.
"It was for you."
I sat slowly.
"Explain."
"Dad thought you wouldn't spend money on yourself after he died."
My throat tightened.
"He put ten thousand into my account and told me that after six months, when I gave you the letter, I was supposed to use the money to book the Switzerland trip."
I could not speak.
Rebecca continued through tears.
"He wanted me to surprise you."
I looked toward my husband's photograph.
Ten thousand dollars.
The letter.
Six months.
Switzerland.
All part of the same plan.
"What happened to the money?"
The silence returned.
This time it was terrible.
"Rebecca."
"I spent it."
I closed my eyes.
"On what?"
"Our wedding debt."
My eyes opened.
"Your wedding was before he died."
"We still owed some vendors. And credit cards."
"You told me everything was paid."
"I know."
"You let me believe your father transferred money to you for your own use."
"I told myself he had given it to me."
"No."
My voice became cold.
"He gave it to you in trust for something specific."
"I know that now."
"You knew it then."
She started crying harder.
"Yes."
Ten thousand dollars.
Not merely money.
A trip my husband had planned for me after his death.
A bridge he had built from grief toward life.
Rebecca had taken that too.
I stood at the window.
The lake outside looked suddenly unbearable.
This place I had believed I finally chose for myself had once been chosen for me by the man I loved.
He had tried to send me here years earlier.
Rebecca had stopped it.
"Mom."
I couldn't answer.
"Please say something."
I looked at my husband's photograph.
Then at the statement.
"Did you ever intend to tell me?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"That's the same answer you gave about the letter."
"I know."
"The same pattern."
"I know."
"How many other things don't I know?"
Rebecca went silent.
My heart began pounding.
That was not the response I needed.
"Rebecca."
"There aren't more."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Completely?"
A pause.
Then: "There is one thing."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
"What?"
"It's not money."
"What is it?"
Rebecca's voice became almost inaudible.
"Something Dad asked me to do."
I waited.
"And?"
"I didn't do it."
"What did he ask?"
"He wanted me to take you somewhere before he died."
"Where?"
Rebecca began crying.
"The hospital."
I frowned.
"I was at the hospital constantly."
"Not his hospital."
My stomach tightened.
"Then where?"
Rebecca inhaled.
"To see someone."
"Who?"
Another silence.
Then she said a name I had not heard in thirty-seven years.
"Daniel."
I gripped the back of the chair.
Daniel.
My husband's younger brother.
The man who had vanished from our lives after an argument so old and bitter that Rebecca had barely known he existed.
"What did your father want with Daniel?"
"He wanted you to find him."
"Why?"
Rebecca whispered the answer.
"Because Dad said there was something about your marriage you deserved to know before he died."
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: My Husband Had Tried to Send Me to His Estranged Brother, and Daniel’s Name Reopened a Secret Buried for Thirty-Seven Years
I Brought My Daughter Her Favorite Birthday Cake, and She Gave Me One Sentence I Could Never Unhear
Part 14 of 35
