“That whatever the reason was, it doesn’t belong to her alone anymore.”
My father’s expression darkens. “You’re suggesting we simply hand family history over to anyone who digs for it?”
“I’m suggesting,” I say calmly, “that it belongs to the people it affects.” I pause. “And Anna is one of those people.”
The silence stretches again.
My mother finally says, carefully, “You’re allowing that woman to pull you into something she doesn’t understand.”
I meet her gaze without hesitation.
“Hildy understands more about history than anyone in this family.”
They don’t respond to that.
“More importantly,” I add quietly, “she understands that history doesn’t disappear just because it makes people uncomfortable.”
My father exhales sharply. “You’re risking a great deal.”
“Maybe.” I lean back in the chair. “But if heritage only means land and money to you, then I suppose this conversation will never make sense.”
Their expressions harden slightly.
“To me,” I finish quietly, “heritage includes the truth.”
No one speaks for a moment.
Finally, my mother says, “We will discuss this again.”
“I’m sure we will.” I end the call before they can add anything else.
For a moment, I just sit here in Hildy’s office, surrounded by empty shelves and the desk she’ll soon fill with books and notes and arguments strong enough to shake entire historical narratives.
Chapter 33
Oma
Hildy
Ican’t even describe how much I love my new office, and the space I have. There is a stack of student essays that sits to my left, my new desktop, the screen opened to my dissertation chapter outline in front of me, and a mug of tea I keep forgetting to drink cooling slowly beside it.
If I can get through half this stack and tighten the argument in section three before Friday when Lucy and Lenzin get home, the weekend is ours. No grading. No writing. Just the three of us driving to Boston for the game.
That’s the deal I made with myself. Work now. Family and yes, hockey later.
I’m halfway through a paragraph that insists on wandering when the knock comes. Three taps. Firm but not impatient.
I glance at the clock automatically. Too early for Lucy and Lenzin, and they wouldn’t be knocking anyway. I push back from the desk and head to the door, already runningthrough possibilities—delivery, wrong house, someone from the neighborhood.
When I open the door, I stop.
A woman I recognize from research, Lenzin’s grandmother, stands on the porch.
She’s smaller than I expected, though that word feels wrong the second it forms.
Her coat is buttoned neatly to the throat, silver hair pulled back, eyes steady and direct.
“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice calm, lightly accented, and completely unsurprised to see me.
