Grandpa Walter had written the letter two years before he died. He wrote it, he explained, because he had seen certain patterns develop over the years in my parents’ relationship to money and to fairness and to the things he intended to leave me, and he had decided that love for his daughter, my mother, did not require him to be naive about what she and my father were capable of when the stakes were high enough.
He wrote that he had taken precautions.
He wrote that there was a safe in the house, the house he had left to me, and that the key in the envelope would open it, and that inside he had placed materials he had been collecting for several years against the possibility that this day would come.
He wrote: I hope you never need any of this. But I know you, Elise, and I know them, and I have spent my life being prepared for the things I hope will not happen.
He signed it with the nickname he had always used for me, the one nobody else called me, and I sat in Mr. Hargrove’s office and held the letter and did not try to stop myself from crying because there was no point.
