Chapter 3 - THE LETTER ELAINE SAVEDI slept almost none that night.
Brian and Melissa did not.
They stayed downstairs until around one.
Then I heard drawers opening in the guest room they had gradually converted into their bedroom.
Suitcases.
I did not stop them.
I also did not throw them out at midnight.
My lawyer later said that was wise.
People living in a home, even without formal rent, can acquire occupancy rights depending on circumstances and local law.
You do not change locks because birthday dinner went badly.
You give lawful notice.
There would be enough mistakes in my story.
I did not need an illegal eviction too.
At 4:20 a.m., I went into the cedar chest in my bedroom.
Elaine kept documents.
All documents.
Tax returns from 1998.
Warranty papers for appliances we no longer owned.
Birthday cards from dead relatives.
Near the bottom was a red expandable file labeled:
BRIAN — PERSONAL
I had not opened it since she died.
Inside:
College records.
Insurance.
An old car title.
Then a certified-mail envelope.
Return address:
April Parker
Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
Nine years earlier.
The letter was only two pages.
I remembered some of it.
Not all.
April wrote that she and Brian had dated briefly while Brian and Melissa were separated before their marriage.
That much I knew.
She had a son.
She believed Brian was the father.
The boy was then two.
She said Brian had completed private DNA testing.
She wanted him to acknowledge the result and discuss support.
Elaine had confronted Brian.
He denied everything.
“The test was inconclusive.”
Then:
“She’s threatening me because she knows you have money.”
I asked if there was a child.
He said:
“No.”
Not:
Maybe not mine.
Not:
We’re testing.
No.
Elaine asked to see the lab report.
Brian said April had it.
Elaine wanted to contact April directly.
I stopped her.
That was mine.
I said:
“Brian is forty-three. This is his personal life.”
He was thirty-five then, actually, but same principle.
Elaine answered:
“If there is a little boy involved, it stopped being only Brian’s personal life.”
She was right.
I did not want drama.
There is that word again.
Drama.
A convenient label adults use when truth threatens dinner.
I told Elaine:
“If Brian says it isn’t his child, we have to trust him.”
She stared at me for a long time.
“Do we?”
Apparently we did.
The letter went into the file.
Life continued.
Elaine never mentioned April to me again.
Now I saw handwriting at the bottom of the second page.
Elaine’s.
Called A.P. 6/14. She says DNA confirmed. Brian refuses permission for her to send report? Ask him again.
Then beneath that:
He says test was fraudulent.
A final line written three months later:
Do not know what to believe.
My wife died never knowing whether she had another grandson.
Maybe she had known more later.
Maybe not.
I would not invent knowledge for a dead person just because it made the story cleaner.
I sat on the floor beside the cedar chest until sunrise.
At 7:03, Brian knocked on my bedroom door.
“Dad?”
I stood.
Opened it.
He saw the letter in my hand.
His shoulders dropped.
“There is a boy.”
Not:
Good morning.
Not:
I’m sorry.
There is a boy.
I said:
“Is he yours?”
May you like
Brian closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
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