My chest tightens. I have to stop again, fingers curling around the edge of the paper.
Marshall exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s a hell of a thing to say about someone’s grandmother.”
Wyatt glances at him, then turns back to me. “Keep going,” he says softly. “If you can.”
I nod.
“She had secrets, and I don’t think she ever told you about these. Maybe to protect you, but I don’t know if protection is what you need. Same as her.”
That’s where my voice cracks.
I press my lips together, breathing through the sudden ache in my throat.
Marshall’s arms uncross without him seeming to notice. His hands land on the counter, palms flat.
“That’s not accidental language,” he says. “That’s someone who knew her well.”
Wyatt murmurs, “Or someone who thinks they did.”
I continue. “But there are truths that change how you see the people you love, and not everyone is willing to live with that shift.”
Marshall swears under his breath.
Wyatt’s gaze sharpens, glasses catching the light. “That’s… specific.”
“Your mother knew more than she said. She always did. She learned early which questions not to ask out loud. That silence cost her more than you realize.”
I feel like I’ve been punched.
My hands start shaking hard enough that the paper rustles. Wyatt reaches out, trying to calm me.
Marshall’s voice is rough now. “Whoever wrote this is implying your parents were lied to. Or agreed to lie.”
I nod faintly, unable to speak.
I force myself to finish.
“There is someone else who knows. Someone who stepped away before you were old enough to understand why. That distance was not indifference. It was survival.”
Wyatt looks up at me immediately. “That’s the line that matters.”
I already know.
“If you are wondering how I know this, it’s because I was there when choices were made that could not be undone. I watched people decide what you would and would not be allowed to know. I stayed quiet longer than I should have.”
Marshall straightens, every inch of him alert now. “That means proximity.”
“That silence ends with you.”
The words echo in the kitchen like a dropped plate.
I take a breath and read the last part, quieter now.
“There is something your grandmother left behind that was never meant to be hidden forever. If you want it, look where she worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted. Look where she kept what mattered but couldn’t be shared yet. Look where you learned patience.”
I furrow my brows in confusion. What does any of this mean? It’s so cryptic and weird. If someone wanted to help me, why like this?
“Signed, a friend.”
