The discovery did not erase what had happened.
But it complicated the story I had been telling myself.
That evening, I called Rebecca.
“Can you come over?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, she arrived carrying two coffees.
“I didn’t know what you drink here.”
“The same thing I drank there.”
“I know. That sounded stupid.”
She sat on my sofa.
I handed her the printed email.
She looked at it.
“Oh.”
“You wrote this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She considered the question.
“When my grandmother moved in with my parents, she sold her house and gave most of the money to my father.”
I had never heard this story.
“What happened?”
“Nothing terrible.”
Her expression turned thoughtful.
“That was the problem. Everyone was nice. Everyone loved each other. But after a few years, my grandmother wanted her own apartment again.”
