Chapter 3 - The Address Ava Couldn't Explain
I reached the front door before anyone stopped me.
“Amelia, wait,” Mom said.
I didn't.
My hand closed around the brass handle.
I opened the door.
My father was standing on Grandpa's porch.
For seven years, I had imagined what I would say if I ever saw him again.
I had imagined anger.
Questions.
Maybe nothing.
I never imagined seeing him beside the white SUV that had somehow dragged every buried family secret into the open.
Thomas Carter looked older.
That was my first thought.
His hair, once dark brown, was streaked heavily with gray.
There were lines around his eyes I didn't remember.
He wore jeans and a navy work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He held a brown expanding folder under one arm.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said my name.
“Amelia.”
Something about hearing it in his voice almost undid me.
I hated that.
I wanted to be angry enough not to feel anything else.
Instead, I felt sixteen.
“Why are you here?”
He looked past me.
“Ava called.”
Of course she had.
Behind me, Grandpa approached slowly.
His cane tapped once against the floor.
Thomas straightened.
“Henry.”
“Thomas.”
No warmth.
No hostility either.
Just history.
Grandpa looked at the folder.
“You brought the deed?”
Dad nodded.
Mom appeared behind us.
The instant he saw her, his expression changed.
“Margaret.”
Mom crossed her arms.
“You shouldn't be here.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“You've been saying that for eight years.”
“Don't do this.”
“I'm not the one who started it.”
Grandpa stepped between them with his voice alone.
“Study.”
Nobody argued this time.
Dad followed us inside.
Ava remained near the dining room.
She looked terrified.
I wondered whether she had expected her secret meetings with Dad to stay private indefinitely.
Then again, Ava often acted first and assumed someone else would handle consequences later.
We returned to the study.
Dad placed the folder on Grandpa's desk.
Grandpa opened it.
I stood beside him.
The first document was indeed a deed for the West Briar Road property.
Grandpa read it carefully.
His expression didn't change until the signature page.
Then his eyes sharpened.
“Where did you get this?”
Dad pointed toward Mom.
“She gave it to me.”
Mom shook her head.
“That's not what happened.”
Dad laughed.
“Really?”
“Thomas.”
“Margaret, you came to my apartment two months after the divorce with this document and said Henry wanted the property settled.”
I looked at Mom.
She didn't deny going there.
Grandpa turned the page.
“My signature is on this.”
Dad nodded.
“You signed it.”
“No.”
One word.
Dad stared.
Grandpa held the paper closer.
“I did not sign this.”
Nobody spoke.
My heartbeat became loud in my ears.
Mom sank into a chair.
“Dad—”
Grandpa didn't look at her.
“Did you forge my signature?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“It wasn't like that.”
Grandpa's cane hit the floor.
“Stop saying that.”
For the first time that evening, his voice rose.
Not much.
But enough.
Mom's eyes filled.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Losing everything.”
Dad stared at her.
“You had the house.”
“I had two daughters!”
“And I was paying support.”
“You were late.”
“Twice.”
“You were unstable.”
“I lost my business.”
“And I was supposed to trust you?”
Dad stopped.
His anger shifted into something tired.
“No. You were supposed to let me be their father.”
Mom looked away.
Grandpa held up the deed.
“This is bigger than your divorce.”
Mom whispered, “I know.”
I moved closer.
“What exactly did she do?”
Grandpa studied the document.
“This deed transferred the property directly to Thomas.”
Dad frowned.
“I thought that was your intention.”
“It wasn't.”
“What was?”
Grandpa opened the original memorandum.
“The property was held under a temporary arrangement. Eventually it was supposed to enter a trust for Amelia and Ava.”
Dad looked genuinely stunned.
“You never told me that.”
“I didn't because Margaret was handling the paperwork during the separation.”
Every eye turned toward Mom.
She covered her face with both hands.
For a few seconds, she was silent.
Then she lowered them.
“I thought if Thomas had something stable, he would leave us alone.”
I couldn't understand the sentence.
“You gave Dad a house so he'd leave?”
Mom looked at me.
“I was trying to make the divorce clean.”
“For who?”
“For everyone.”
“No. For you.”
She flinched.
Dad leaned against the desk.
“That's what you told me. You said Henry wanted me out of the family businesses and the house was compensation.”
Grandpa shook his head.
“I wanted you to recover.”
Dad looked at him.
“You stopped answering me.”
“Because your letters became hostile.”
“What letters?”
Grandpa frowned.
Dad stared.
“The letters I sent asking why you were keeping me away from the girls.”
Grandpa's expression changed.
“I never received those.”
Slowly, everyone looked at Mom again.
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the lies were multiplying faster than I could process them.
“Mom?”
She stood.
“I can't do this.”
I moved toward the doorway before she could leave.
For once, I stood in her way.
“No.”
She stared at me.
“Move.”
“That's what you always say to me.”
“What?”
“Move. Give it up. Let Ava have it. Don't make things hard.”
Her face tightened.
“This isn't about the car anymore.”
“Maybe it never was.”
That silenced her.
Grandpa looked at Dad.
“Why is Ava visiting you?”
Dad glanced at my sister.
Ava slowly entered the study.
“I contacted him,” she said.
That surprised all of us except Mom.
“When?” I asked.
“Last summer.”
“How?”
“Facebook.”
Dad gave a small nod.
“She sent me a message.”
“Why?”
Ava's voice became smaller.
“Because I wanted to know him.”
That was the first thing she had said all evening that I couldn't resent.
Of course she did.
Whatever else Ava was, she had been fourteen when Dad left.
She had questions too.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked at Mom.
“Mom said you'd get upset.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Mom deciding what I could handle.
Mom protecting me by withholding reality.
Dad stepped toward me.
“I asked about you every time Ava came over.”
I looked at him.
“Then why didn't you come find me?”
He took that without flinching.
“I should have.”
The simple answer hurt more than an excuse would have.
“I tried calls. Letters. Emails.”
“You knew where Grandpa lived.”
“Yes.”
“You knew where I worked?”
“Eventually.”
“And you still didn't come.”
Dad lowered his gaze.
“I was ashamed.”
I waited.
He continued.
“I lost the company. I lost the marriage. I convinced myself I'd fix everything first and come back when I could prove I wasn't the man your mother said I was.”
“That took seven years?”
“No.”
He met my eyes.
“It took seven years for me to admit I was a coward.”
Nobody spoke.
I wasn't ready to forgive him.
But for the first time, I believed he was telling me something real.
Grandpa returned to the deed.
“We need an attorney to review this.”
Mom stiffened.
“Dad, please.”
“If my signature was forged, I don't have another choice.”
“You'll destroy me.”
“No.”
Grandpa's voice became quiet again.
“Your decisions may have consequences. That's different.”
Ava started crying.
Not dramatically.
Just tears slipping silently down her face.
“I didn't know any of this.”
Grandpa looked at her.
“You knew the SUV wasn't yours.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“You knew your sister was paying for rides while you drove it.”
Another nod.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ava wiped her cheek.
“Because Mom said Amelia wouldn't care.”
I almost interrupted.
Ava continued.
“And because I wanted people to think I was doing better than I was.”
That was brutally honest.
“I haven't gotten the real estate job,” she said.
Mom turned toward her.
“Ava.”
“I haven't.”
She looked at me.
“I failed the licensing exam twice.”
I hadn't known.
“Mom told me to keep posting. Keep making it look like I had clients. She said people trust success.”
My SUV suddenly made more sense.
The photographs.
The fake captions.
The constant driving.
She was creating a life online that didn't exist offline.
Dad spoke softly.
“Most of the times she came to West Briar Road, she was studying.”
I looked at Ava.
She nodded.
“Dad was helping me.”
Dad gave a tiny shrug.
“I know nothing about real estate licensing, but I know how to make coffee.”
Against my will, something in me softened.
Not enough to erase what she'd done.
Enough to understand that her behavior was driven partly by panic.
Grandpa didn't soften yet.
“You still used Amelia.”
“I know.”
Ava's eyes moved toward me.
“For what it's worth, I was going to give the car back after I passed.”
“That doesn't make it okay.”
“I know.”
And strangely, that mattered.
Not because an apology fixed two weeks of entitlement.
Because for the first time in our lives, Ava wasn't saying Mom made me do it.
Grandpa closed the deed.
“We will deal with the property legally.”
Mom looked terrified.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I'm not making accusations until I know what happened.”
“I told you.”
“No. You've told us pieces.”
He turned toward me.
“As for the SUV, you drive it home tonight.”
I nodded.
Then Dad said something that changed the room.
“She might want to check the glove compartment first.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
Dad glanced at Ava.
Ava's face drained.
Grandpa immediately noticed.
“What is in the glove compartment?”
Ava whispered, “Nothing.”
Dad shook his head.
“Ava.”
She looked at him.
“You told me you were going to handle it.”
Mom stood.
“Handle what?”
I already had the keys in my hand.
I turned toward the hallway.
Ava followed.
“Amelia, wait.”
I kept walking.
We went through the foyer.
Out the front door.
The white SUV sat beneath the porch lights.
Mine again.
I unlocked it.
The headlights flashed.
Ava reached for my arm but stopped before touching me.
“Please.”
“What did you put in my car?”
“It wasn't supposed to stay there.”
I opened the passenger door.
Then the glove compartment.
Inside was an envelope.
Thick.
Cream-colored.
My full name was written across the front.
AMELIA CARTER.
The handwriting wasn't Ava's.
I knew that before Dad came onto the porch.
When he saw it, he stopped.
His face changed.
“I wrote that six years ago.”
I turned the envelope over.
It had already been opened.
And beneath my name, in my mother's handwriting, were three words:
Do not deliver.
Mom was standing in the doorway behind us.
But when I pulled the letter out, another document fell onto the passenger seat.
A photograph.
May you like
A hospital bracelet.
And a birth certificate bearing a name I had never seen before...
