She says, investigated like a curse, as if the woman carrying their grandchildren has betrayed them.
“That history,” I say evenly, “is not yours alone to decide the fate of.”
My father’s expression tightens. “It was your grandmother’s decision.”
“Yes, and it affected more than just her.” I rest my forearms on the desk. “It affects generations.”
My mother exhales slowly. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I reply calmly. “I’m being realistic.”
I glance toward the door Lucy just walked through. “It affects my children. It affects Anna’s children. It affects every generation that comes after us.”
Neither of them says anything.
“So, tell me,” I continue, “why exactly should Anna not know the truth about her own heritage?”
My father shakes his head. “Because dragging something like this into the light serves no purpose.”
“No purpose?” I repeat.
“It complicates things that were resolved long ago.”
I hold his gaze. “Resolved for who?”
My mother folds her hands together. “For the family.”
I study them for a moment. Then I ask quietly, “What does heritage mean to you?”
They both look slightly confused by the question.
“Is it the name?” I continue. “The money? The estates? The land? The reputation people attach to our family?”
My father shifts. “That’s an oversimplification.”
“Is it?” I ask. “Or is heritage the history behind all of that? The truth of how we became who we are?”
Neither of them answers.
I continue before they can redirect the conversation.
“If it’s only the comfortable parts that matter, the wealth, the reputation, the legacy people admire from a distance, then I suppose pretending the rest doesn’t exist would be convenient.”
My mother’s patience thins.
“You’re speaking as if you understand decisions that were made long before you were born.”
“I don’t,” I say simply.
That stops them.
“I have no idea whyGrossmuttermade the choices she did.”
And that’s the truth. I don’t know what she carried. What she saw. What she feared. I only know she chose silence.
“But I do know one thing,” I continue.
“What?”
