PART 3
I was the hired help, after all. Eleven dollars an hour. Three nights a week. A woman who knew how to change sheets without waking a sleeping patient and how to wash an old man’s hair without getting water in his ears.
I knew where Gordon kept his clean pajamas.
I knew he liked his soup a little warmer than most people could tolerate.
I knew he sometimes cried when the television showed a dog waiting outside a hospital.
And I knew that the woman sitting at the table had been giving him more sleeping medication than his prescription allowed.
But I also knew something else.
I had no idea what she would do when she discovered that the woman she had been paying eleven dollars an hour to bathe her husband was the same woman he had once promised to love until death.
“I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Charlene finally said.
Her voice was smooth again. She had found it somewhere between her second breath and her third.
Ms. Osei did not argue.
“Then we’ll document your explanation. According to the physician’s instructions, Mr. Pryce is prescribed one tablet in the evening. Your medication organizer contained two tablets in the Thursday compartment on five separate occasions. The home health aide documented the discrepancies in her routine shift reports.”
Charlene glanced toward the kitchen.
I lowered my eyes to the dish towel.
It was a small movement, but she saw it.
“Her reports?” Charlene repeated. “You mean the aide has been watching me?”
“No,” Ms. Osei replied. “She has been documenting what she observed while providing care to your husband.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Not legally, it’s not.”
Trent leaned forward.
“Mom, what is she talking about? Dad’s medication?”
“Your father has dementia, Trent. You know that. Sometimes his behavior becomes difficult, and his doctor adjusted his medication.”
“Then why are there two pills when the prescription says one?”
Charlene looked at him sharply.
“Because sometimes the pharmacy changes the packaging. You wouldn’t understand the details.”
Trent sat back.
He was forty-six now, with silver beginning to show at his temples. When he was a boy, he used to run through my kitchen with his shoes untied and his schoolbooks falling out of his backpack. He had once cried for twenty minutes because I accidentally cut his grilled cheese sandwich into triangles instead of squares.
I remembered all of it.
He did not remember me nearly as well.
He had been seventeen when his father left, and he had spent the following years believing I was the reason his parents’ marriage had failed. Gordon had never said that directly, at least not in front of me, but children are very good at assembling a story from the fragments adults leave behind.
By the time Trent graduated from college, he had learned to call me on Mother’s Day out of obligation.
By the time he married, I was no longer invited to family holidays.
I had not seen him in person for eleven years before that morning.
And now we were standing in the same house again, on opposite sides of a dining room table, both of us waiting for the truth about his father.
“Ms. Osei,” Trent said, “what happens now?”
“We’ll need to review the medication records with Mr. Pryce’s physician. We’ll also need to assess whether his current care arrangements are appropriate and whether he is being adequately protected. The conservatorship documents raise additional questions.”
Charlene’s expression changed.
Only slightly, but I noticed.
It was the expression of a woman who had expected to discuss paperwork and had suddenly discovered that someone intended to read it.
“Those documents are private family business,” she said.
“Not when they concern a vulnerable adult’s safety and finances.”
“His finances are mine to manage.”
“Are you his legal conservator?”
“Not yet. That’s why we’re meeting today.”
“Then you understand that his capacity must be assessed appropriately and that his interests must be protected throughout the process.”
Charlene pressed her lips together.
Trent looked at the folder.
“Why do you need conservatorship?”
“Because your father can no longer manage his affairs.”
“His accountant handled the bills for years. We could arrange something similar.”
“That is not enough anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because things are becoming complicated.”
“What things?”
She did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched.
Then Melissa’s voice came through the laptop.
“Mom, why did you tell me the house was already being sold?”
Everyone turned toward the screen.
Charlene’s head snapped up.
“Melissa, not now.”
“You told me last week that the buyer had made an offer and everything was settled.”
“I said we had received an offer.”
“You said Dad would be moving into an assisted living apartment by September and that the sale would pay for it.”
“That is what I said.”
“Then why does the paperwork say the house is being transferred to a company?”
For the first time, I saw genuine fear in Charlene’s eyes.
Not guilt.
Not yet.
Fear.
Ms. Osei reached for the folder.
“Which company?”
Melissa hesitated.
“I took a picture of the document Mom sent me. She said I needed to sign a consent form because I’m his daughter.”
“Can you send that document to me?”
“Yes.”
“Please do not sign anything until you have independent advice.”
Charlene stood so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor.
“This is ridiculous. You are all acting as if I’m some kind of criminal. I have taken care of Gordon for twenty-three years. I have sacrificed everything for him.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
I looked at her.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.
I knew what it meant to spend years caring for a husband who no longer saw you clearly. I knew what it meant to wake in the night wondering whether the person beside you would remember your name in the morning.
But there was a difference between caring for someone and using their dependence as an opportunity.
And I was beginning to suspect Charlene had crossed that line long before any of us had noticed.
Ms. Osei closed the folder.
“No one is accusing you of a crime at this stage. We are investigating concerns that have been brought to our attention. I recommend that you cooperate fully.”
“Who brought these concerns to your attention?”
There it was again.
The question she had been circling since the beginning.
Who?
Who had noticed the missing furniture?
Who had counted the pills?
Who had paid attention to the thermostat?
Who had watched a man grow thinner while the house around him grew emptier?
Ms. Osei looked at me.
I had spent five months preparing for that moment without ever admitting to myself that it might come.
I could have lied.
I could have said the agency had noticed something during a routine review. I could have let the county investigator carry the weight of the accusation.
Instead, I put down the dish towel.
“I did,” I said.
Charlene turned toward me.
For one second, her face was blank.
Then she laughed.
It was a short, disbelieving sound.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You are the aide.”
“Yes.”
“You have been in this house for five months.”
“Yes.”
“And you think you know enough about my husband to accuse me of mistreating him?”
“I haven’t accused you of anything. I reported what I observed.”
“After I trusted you with my home?”
I looked at her steadily.
“You trusted me to take care of Gordon.”
“And I paid you to do that.”
“You did.”
“Eleven dollars an hour, I believe. A very generous arrangement for someone who was happy to accept it.”
I felt the old instinct to retreat.
It had taken me decades to recognize that instinct for what it was: the reflex of a woman who had spent most of her adult life making herself smaller so other people could remain comfortable.
I had no desire to fight Charlene.
I did not want her money.
I did not want her husband back.
I did not want an apology for something that had happened twenty-three years ago.
But I would not allow her to turn Gordon’s safety into an argument about my paycheck.
“I accepted the assignment because I believed he needed help,” I said. “And he does.”
Charlene’s eyes narrowed.
“Why do you care so much?”
The room went quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator humming behind me. Somewhere upstairs, the heating pipes clicked.
Trent was staring at me now.
So was Ms. Osei.
I thought about the photograph in Gordon’s shoebox. The young woman in the yellow dress standing beside a Ford, her hair caught by the wind, one hand resting on the car’s hood.
I thought about the words Gordon had written on the back.
My Wanda.
And I realized that there was no answer I could give that would not open a door I had kept closed for twenty-three years.
So I told the truth.
“Because I was married to him for thirty-one years.”
Nobody moved.
Charlene’s face lost its color.
Trent stared at me as if I had spoken in another language.
On the laptop screen, Melissa’s mouth fell open.
“What?” Trent whispered.
“My name is Wanda Pryce. I was Gordon’s first wife.”
I let the words settle.
“Your mother and I have never met. Gordon and I divorced in 2003. I became a home health aide eighteen years ago. When the agency offered me this assignment, I recognized the address.”
Trent stood up.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you came here anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I wasn’t here to discuss the marriage. I was here to make sure your father was safe.”
He shook his head.
“This is unbelievable.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” His voice rose. “You were married to my father, and you came into our house pretending to be a stranger?”
“I came into the house as his caregiver.”
“You should have told someone.”
“You are right about that.”
My answer seemed to catch him off guard.
I had rehearsed arguments in my mind for months. I had imagined telling Trent that his father had not been the only person who suffered after the divorce. I had imagined explaining that I spent years rebuilding a life from almost nothing while Gordon and Charlene bought a larger house and took vacations together.
I had imagined defending myself.
But I had not expected the truth to feel so small when I finally said it.
“I should have told the agency about the conflict before accepting the assignment,” I continued. “That was my mistake. I should have made sure another aide was assigned. But once I saw what was happening here, I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen it.”
Charlene found her voice.
“This is revenge.”
“No.”
“You have spent twenty-three years waiting for an opportunity to punish me.”
“No.”
“You want Gordon back, and you think if you make me look bad, you can take him away from me.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then I said the one thing I had never imagined saying to the woman who had replaced me.
“Charlene, I don’t want your life.”
She blinked.
“I don’t want your house. I don’t want your money. And I don’t want the man who left me in 2003. I want the man who is sitting in that recliner to be treated like a human being.”
My voice trembled, but I did not stop.
“He may not remember my name. He may not remember yours tomorrow. But he is still a person. He still gets cold. He still gets hungry. He still deserves to be safe in his own home.”
Charlene looked away.
Ms. Osei rose from her chair.
“I think we have enough for today. I will follow up regarding the medication review and the financial documents. In the meantime, any proposed change in residence should be discussed with the appropriate professionals, and I strongly recommend that Mr. Pryce’s children seek independent legal advice.”
She handed Trent her card.
Then she turned to me.
“Ms. Wanda, I will need to speak with you privately about your observations and the circumstances of your assignment.”
“Of course.”
“And your agency will need to review whether this arrangement should continue.”
“I understand.”
I meant that, too.
Whatever happened next, I knew I could not remain in the house indefinitely. My presence was now part of the conflict, and Gordon deserved care that did not depend on the complicated history between us.
Ms. Osei left.
Melissa ended the video call after asking Trent to contact her as soon as he could.
And for several minutes, nobody spoke.
Then a small voice came from the hallway.
“Wanda?”
I turned.
Gordon stood at the edge of the living room, one hand gripping the doorframe.
He was wearing his blue cardigan, the one with the loose button near the collar. His gray hair stuck up at the back, and one slipper was halfway off his foot.
He looked frightened.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Trent moved toward him.
“Nothing, Dad. Everything is fine.”
Gordon looked at his son, then at Charlene, then at me.
His eyes lingered on my face.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The question broke something inside me.
I had spent five months watching him forget things. I had watched him lose the thread of conversations, forget where he put his glasses, and ask the same question six times in ten minutes.
But I had never heard him ask whether he had done something wrong.
I crossed the room slowly.
“No, Gordon,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
He studied my face.
“Do I know you?”
The room became painfully still.
I could have told him.
I could have said my name, reminded him of the house we once shared, the children we raised, the nights we spent sitting on the porch during summer thunderstorms.
But I had learned that forcing memories into a mind struggling to hold them could make the person feel even more lost.
So I smiled gently.
“I’m Wanda. I’m here to help you.”
He considered that.
Then he nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. “I could use some help.”
I took his arm and walked with him toward his recliner.
Behind us, Charlene remained standing beside the dining room table, staring at the papers that had suddenly made her world much less certain.
I helped Gordon sit down, straightened the blanket across his knees, and placed his glasses on the side table where he could reach them.
He caught my wrist before I could move away.
His fingers were thin and surprisingly warm.
“Wanda?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever been married?”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Once,” I said.
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Was he a good man?”
I looked at him.
There were so many possible answers.
I could have told him about the young husband who used to leave notes beside my coffee cup. The father who carried his sleeping children from the car to their beds. The man who held my hand during my mother’s funeral and promised that neither of us would ever have to face grief alone.
I could also have told him about the man who walked out of our marriage and never looked back.
Instead, I said, “He was complicated.”
Gordon smiled faintly.
“That sounds like me.”
For one brief moment, I almost laughed.
Then his expression changed.
He looked down at his hands.
“I did something bad,” he whispered.
I pulled a chair beside him.
“What do you mean?”
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the blanket.
“I left someone.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“Who did you leave?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“But she was kind. I think she was kind.”
I could not speak.
He looked up at me, distressed by the tears he could not explain.
“I can’t remember her face,” he said. “And I think I should.”
I reached for a tissue and placed it in his hand.
“You don’t have to remember everything right now.”
“But what if she thinks I forgot her?”
I pressed my lips together.
“Sometimes people forget things they never wanted to forget.”
He stared at the tissue.
Then he looked back at me.
“Would she forgive me?”
I thought about the years I had spent trying not to hate him.
I thought about the anger that had carried me through the first few years after our divorce, and the loneliness that followed when anger no longer gave me anything to do.
I thought about the life I had built without him.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that she would want you to be all right.”
He nodded as though that made sense.
Then he closed his eyes.
Within minutes, his breathing slowed.
I remained beside him until his hand relaxed around the blanket.
When I finally stood, I found Trent watching me from the hallway.
He looked older than he had an hour earlier.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
I glanced at Gordon.
“Not here.”
We went into the kitchen.
Trent stood near the sink, staring at the same counter where I had prepared hundreds of meals during the first years of his life.
“I don’t know what to say,” he began.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“No. I do.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I remember you.”
I looked at him.
“Of course you do.”
“I mean, I remember you differently than I remembered you before today.”
I waited.
“When Dad left, he told us that you two had been unhappy for years. He said the divorce was inevitable and that you wanted to start a new life.”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
“He said that?”
Trent nodded.
“He said you didn’t want us getting caught in the middle. He said you agreed that it was better if we stayed with him and Charlene.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The story Gordon had told his children.
A neat, convenient version of the truth that allowed everyone to move forward without examining the damage left behind.
“I never agreed to that,” I said quietly.
Trent looked at me.
“What?”
“I never agreed that you should stop seeing me. I asked for weekends. I asked for holidays. I called your father more times than I can count. He said you needed time to adjust, and I believed him.”
Trent’s expression crumpled.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“He told me you were angry and didn’t want us around.”
“I was angry. I was hurt. But I never stopped wanting you around.”
He sat down at the kitchen table.
For a moment, he looked like the little boy who had once fallen asleep with his head on my lap after a long drive.
“I didn’t call you when I got married,” he said.
“No.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“No.”
“I told myself it was because you wouldn’t want to come.”
I pulled out the chair opposite him.
“Sometimes it’s easier to believe someone doesn’t want us than to risk finding out they do.”
He stared at me.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were quiet.
They were not enough to repair eleven years of silence, much less twenty-three years of distance.
But they were honest.
And for that morning, honesty was enough.
I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Thank you.”
He swallowed hard.
“Did you ever hate Dad?”
I looked through the doorway toward the living room.
Gordon slept beneath his blanket, his mouth slightly open, his face relaxed in a way I had not seen since I first returned to the house.
“Yes,” I said.
Trent looked down.
“I think I did, too, sometimes.”
“I know.”
“But I never thought he’d end up like this.”
“Neither did I.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he asked, “Do you think Charlene is hurting him?”
I considered my answer carefully.
“I think there are things that need to be investigated. I think his medication needs to be reviewed. And I think someone needs to look very closely at the financial paperwork.”
“Do you think she loves him?”
That was the question I had been asking myself since March.
I thought about Charlene rushing out the door, leaving Gordon alone with a television he could not hear. I thought about the extra pills, the cold bedroom, the missing furniture.
Then I remembered something else.
Three weeks earlier, I had arrived for my shift and found Charlene sitting beside Gordon’s bed, holding his hand while he slept. She had been crying quietly. When she saw me, she wiped her face and said she had a headache.
I had not asked questions.
Love was not always simple. Sometimes it became exhausted. Sometimes it turned into resentment. Sometimes a person who had once loved someone deeply began to resent the life that caring for them had become.
But none of that excused neglect.
“I don’t know what she feels,” I told Trent. “But love isn’t enough if someone isn’t safe.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he looked at me with an expression I had not seen on his face since he was a child.
“I wish you had been there.”
I knew what he meant.
He wished I had been at his wedding. At the birth of his children. At the ordinary family dinners and birthday parties that had passed without me.
He wished he had not spent so many years believing that the absence of his mother was a choice she had made.
I squeezed his hand.
“I wish I had been there, too.”
We sat together until Gordon woke up.
And for the first time in twenty-three years, I felt as though a door I had thought permanently closed had opened a fraction.
I did not know what waited on the other side.
But I was no longer standing outside alone.
The next morning, Denise called me before I had finished my coffee.
“Wanda, I need you to come into the office.”
Her voice was careful.
I had worked with Denise for fourteen years. She was the kind of woman who could identify a billing error from across a room and who never used more words than necessary when she was worried.
“I assume this is about the Pryce assignment,” I said.
“It is.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not calling to reprimand you. But you should know that Charlene contacted us last night. She says you concealed a personal relationship with the client and that your reports may be motivated by a conflict of interest.”
I looked out the kitchen window.
A squirrel was digging in the flower bed beneath my bird feeder.
“She’s not entirely wrong,” I said.
Denise sighed.
“I appreciate your honesty, but we have procedures for these things.”
“I know.”
“You should have disclosed that you were Gordon’s former wife.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I thought about giving her the easy answer.
Because I wanted to see him.
Because I had spent twenty-three years wondering whether he was happy.
Because some part of me had wanted to know whether the man who had broken my heart had ever thought about me afterward.
All of those things were true.
But they were not the whole truth.
“I thought I could keep my personal history separate from the job,” I said. “I was wrong about that. But the observations in my reports are accurate. The medication discrepancies happened. The furniture disappeared. The thermostat was set low. And the conservatorship documents were in the home.”
“I believe you.”
“Then what happens now?”
“We’ll conduct an internal review. You may need to be removed from the assignment while the county investigates.”
I closed my eyes.
“I understand.”
“Wanda, I need you to hear something. If you are removed, you cannot continue visiting him privately. Not while this is being investigated.”
“I understand.”
“And if the county asks for additional information, you must provide it honestly. Don’t speculate about motives. Just report what you observed.”
“I will.”
After we hung up, I sat at my kitchen table for a long time.
There was a photograph on the refrigerator of my granddaughter at her high school graduation. Beside it was a small calendar with my shifts marked in blue ink.
Monday.
Wednesday.
Friday.
Three nights a week, I had gone to Ridgeline Court and bathed the man who had once been my husband.
I had told myself that I was simply doing my job.
But now I knew that the truth was more complicated.
I had been caring for him because he was vulnerable, yes.
I had also been caring for him because I remembered who he had been.
And perhaps, somewhere deep inside me, I had wanted to prove that the years we shared had not been meaningless.
I made another cup of coffee.
Then I called my sister.
Her name was Lorraine, and she had been telling me for five months that I was making a mistake.
When I told her about the county investigator, she went silent.
Finally, she said, “Wanda, you need to stop.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it. You have spent half your life looking after people who don’t look after you. You looked after Gordon when you were married to him. You looked after those children. You looked after your parents. You spent eighteen years doing home care for strangers. And now you’re back in that man’s house, risking your job for him.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still doing it?”
I looked at the calendar.
“Because I don’t think anyone else has noticed what is happening.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then let the county handle it.”
“I am letting them handle it.”
“Wanda.”
Her voice softened.
“You don’t have to prove you’re a good woman by taking care of the man who hurt you.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had told myself that forgiveness meant no longer being angry.
I was beginning to understand that forgiveness might simply mean refusing to let anger decide what kind of person I would become.
“I know,” I whispered.
Lorraine sighed.
“Do you?”
I did not answer.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure.
By Thursday afternoon, the situation had become more complicated.
Trent called me at work.
“Wanda, I need your help.”
I stood in the supply room, holding a box of disposable gloves.
“What happened?”
“Dad’s physician reviewed the medication list. The doctor says he never authorized the extra tablets.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he change the prescription recently?”
“No. He says Dad has been on the same dosage for months.”
I leaned against the shelf.
“Did you tell the county?”
“Yes. Ms. Osei is looking into it.”
“Good.”
“There’s something else.”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“Dad’s bank called me this morning. They flagged several large transfers from his account.”
I closed my eyes.
“How large?”
“More than a hundred thousand dollars over the last six months.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“Do you know where the money went?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Some of it went to an account belonging to a company called CP Property Holdings.”
I knew what the initials meant.
Charlene Pryce.
“Does your father own property through that company?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then don’t make assumptions. Give the records to the investigator.”
“I already did.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
Then Trent said, “Dad asked about you this morning.”
I gripped the edge of the shelf.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether the woman who used to make pancakes was coming back.”
I could not speak.
“When I asked him which woman he meant, he said, ‘The one who burned the first batch and made the second batch anyway.’”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
It sounded more like a sob.
When Trent was little, I had made pancakes every Sunday morning. Gordon used to stand beside the stove and steal the crispy edges while I worked.
I had burned the first batch so badly that the smoke alarm went off.
Gordon had opened every window in the house and declared that breakfast was officially ruined.
Then he had eaten six pancakes and asked me to make more the following Sunday.
For years, I had forgotten that morning.
Or perhaps I had remembered it too often and learned to push it away.
“Did you tell him who I was?” I asked.
“I tried. He listened for a minute, then asked whether you were my teacher.”
I smiled through my tears.
“That sounds about right.”
“Wanda?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to know something.”
I waited.
“I don’t think you came back to hurt him.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
“I think you came back because some part of you still cares about him.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I care about what happens to him.”
“Is that different?”
I thought about the question.
“Yes,” I said eventually. “And no.”
He did not push me.
Before hanging up, he told me that the county would be visiting Gordon again the following day.
Then he said something that stayed with me long after the call ended.
“I wish Mom had been more like you.”
I stared at the phone.
“Trent, don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know everything about her. You don’t know what her life has been like, either.”
He sighed.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make excuses for people.”
I almost told him that I had spent too many years doing exactly that.
Instead, I said, “Just make sure your father is safe.”
“I will.”
After the call ended, I returned the gloves to the shelf.
Then I sat in my car for ten minutes before driving home.
I had a feeling the story was moving toward something none of us had expected.
I just didn’t know how far it would go.
The county’s next visit took place on Friday morning.
I was not there.
Denise had temporarily reassigned me while the agency reviewed the conflict of interest, and another aide was covering the shift.
I spent the morning cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, and pretending that I was not waiting for my phone to ring.
At eleven thirty, Trent called.
“Wanda, can you come to the house?”
I hesitated.
“I’m not supposed to visit.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to work. I just think you need to hear something.”
“What is it?”
“Dad found something.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
My heart began to pound.
“Where?”
“In the shoebox in his closet.”
I sat down.
“What kind of letter?”
“I don’t know. It was folded inside the photograph of you in the yellow dress.”
I stared at the wall.
For a moment, I could not remember how to breathe.
The shoebox.
The watch.
The mass card.
The photograph.
I had seen the box so many times that it had become part of the landscape of Gordon’s room. I had never opened the photograph. I had never looked inside the envelope that might have been tucked behind it.
“Has anyone read it?” I asked.
“Dad did.”
“Does he understand what it says?”
“I don’t know. He kept asking for you.”
I stood up.
“Trent, I can’t come over there without checking with Denise.”
“Then call her. Please.”
I called Denise.
She listened to my explanation and reminded me that I could not resume caregiving while the review was ongoing. I told her I understood, but that Gordon’s son had asked me to visit as a family member.
After a long discussion, she agreed that I could go briefly, provided I did not provide care or interfere with the investigation.
I drove to Ridgeline Court.
The house looked smaller than I remembered.
Perhaps it was the missing furniture.
Perhaps it was the fact that the windows were all closed, even though the afternoon was warm.
Trent opened the door.
He looked exhausted.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Where is he?”
“In the living room.”
I followed him down the hall.
Gordon sat in his recliner with the yellow-dress photograph resting on his lap. His glasses were crooked, and his cardigan was buttoned incorrectly.
When he saw me, he lifted the photograph.
“Wanda,” he said.
I stopped.
He had said my name before, but usually without knowing what it meant.
This time, there was something different in his voice.
Not recognition exactly.
Something more like certainty.
I sat in the chair beside him.
“I’m here.”
He held out the photograph.
“Is this you?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He studied the picture.
“You were beautiful.”
I laughed softly.
“I was twenty-one.”
“You were beautiful,” he repeated, as if the distinction mattered.
His finger moved across the back of the photograph.
Then he unfolded a small sheet of paper.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Gordon’s handwriting had changed over the years, becoming less steady as his hands grew weaker, but the letter was written in the neat, slanted script I remembered from birthday cards and grocery lists.
The date at the top was October 2003.
Five months after our divorce.
He had written it shortly after leaving me.
I looked at the first line.
Wanda,
I don’t know if I will ever be brave enough to send this to you.
My chest tightened.
Gordon looked at me.
“Read it,” he said.
I hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“I think it’s important.”
So I unfolded the letter and began to read.
Wanda,
I Bathed My Ex-Husband for $11 an Hour—
I Bathed My Ex-Husband for $11 an Hour—His Wife Had No Idea Who I Really Was
Part 1 of 2
