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They sat at the table together in silence, the two blonde-haired Hannigans. The house felt bigger, and in it, Kate felt more vulnerable.
She swallowed hard and stared out through the window, watching on as Amelia and Megan pounced on each other in the grass like obnoxious children. Kate envied them. Amelia and Megan had always been safe, removed. Separated and shielded. Free.
Not Kate. She was smack dab in the middle of it. Kate was the cause of it.
Matt’s shape reappeared in the distance. Her heart ached. For him. For them. For all the years that had filled up like an ocean. Mostly, Kate’s heart ached for Clara, who should have been none the wiser.
Kate thought about the will and wondered what her mother was thinking when she left the house out? And even more than that, why didn’t Michael Matuszewski ask?
“I’m not sure how to start,” Kate whispered, returning her attention to Clara. It was maybe the first time in years Kate had looked upon her like she did now—differently.
Clara’s eyes, bright and blue, took on a milky effect. Darkened hollows framed them, adding to her tired face. Her hair, tied back at the top with a barrette, tugged free at her temples in brittle flyaways. Clara’s skin, devoid of much makeup, drew down in red splotches along her chin—hormonal acne she was too young to kick.
Kate wondered what it would have been like to have a daughter.
“I just want to know why,” Clara replied, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly through parted lips.
“Mom didn’t mean to leave you out of the will,” Kate answered. “She just didn’t update it.”
“Why didn’t she?” Clara shot back, her brows furrowing toward the bridge of her nose.
“You came so much later, and—” Kate stopped short, unwilling to reveal the next thing. The big thing.
“Mom was in Michael Matuszewski’s office,” Clara responded, her tone pleading, even desperate. “Why wouldn’t she think to?”
“Well, in a way she did make an adjustment,” Kate replied at last, reaching into her purse which sat slumped on the floor.
Clara’s face lifted. Hope.
Kate pressed the envelope onto the table beneath her palms, securing it there for the time. “She had a diary, I guess you could say. And she left an entry for us, or me, specifically,” Kate said at last, her eyes welling up.
Her eyes widening, Clara shook her head. “A diary entry?”
“Yes. She tore it out. Maybe there are other entries, but I’m not sure. It seems like she left this one as part of... her will or something. I think... ” A sob escaped Kate’s lips. “I think she was confused. But, Clara, she meant well.”
Tears streamed down Clara’s ruddy cheeks. Her neck blossomed in red patches—evidence of grief and relief and shock.
“But that’s not all,” Kate whispered.
Clara’s crying paused momentarily as she locked eyes with Kate. “Then, what?”
“You,” Kate began, her voice trembling uncontrollably against the weight of the truth. “Clara, you... ” They looked at each other, and Kate could feel Clara’s heart pounding in her own chest wall. Nausea churned in her gut.
“What?” Clara whimpered back.
“Clara, you are not our sister.”