A cousin at the far end of the table let out a small, stunned laugh. “Sammie… What did you do?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “For the record, Michael preserved correspondence related to an attempted custody action.”
“Sammie… What did you do?”
“Clover, what are you —”
“I know about the letters and the threats. And the lawyers. You tried to take me from the only parent I had left.”
“But—”
“Michael didn’t owe me anything,” I continued. “But he gave me everything. He wasn’t given the right to be my dad — he earned it. I don’t understand why you’re here. Did you think my father would have left something for you? He left the truth.”
Aunt Sammie looked away.
“Did you think my father would have left something for you?”
***
That night, I opened the box labeled “Clover’s Art Projects” and pulled out the macaroni bracelet I made in second grade. The string was frayed, the glue brittle, but the flecks of yellow paint still clung to the edges.
