Page 55 of His Wounded Heart

I never want to be just good enough for my precious baby girl.

Evie’s words come back to me. Was I really teaching Bella to push away men? How badly was I confusing her?

Could I be a crappier mother?

Dropping my Bella off at school on Monday was agony. She had vacillated between smiles and crying all day yesterday, but this morning she is all smiles. She mentions four different times what a good family we are. The third time, I fight back tears. The fourth time I end up going to the bathroom so I can throw water on my face so that my tears won’t show. I need to call Evie.

As soon as I get home I shut the door behind me and race to the bathroom that’s connected to my bedroom. I need a long hot shower where I can cry. How did I not know what had been going on in Bella’s mind? Why had I not addressed the daddy issue years ago?

When I flip the handle to hot, I know it’ll take a minute or two for it to warm up. I climb over the lip of the tub and wish for some kind of relief, anything to shut my mind off. When I begin washing my hair and body, I lean against the wall, trying to get myself together. When the water finally runs cold, I turn off the faucets and get out of the tub. I avoid looking in the mirror as I dry off and drift into my bedroom.

Somehow, I end up in yoga pants and an old Tennessee Volunteers football t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on my couch. I must have scrolled through my contacts because when I look down at my phone, the picture of Evie is staring up at me, and my thumb hovering over ‘dial’.

My doorbell rings.

Who the heck is at the door when I look like this? Please God, at least let it only be family. Not Zarek though; I hate him seeing me all red faced and blotchy. The doorbell rings again. Yep, that impatience has family written all over it. It’s surprising they haven’t just come on in. I force myself off the couch and open the door.

“Oh. Hi. I wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Emory,” I say to my postman.

“Hello Mizz Trenda. Have a registered letter for you.” He’s all smiles. “I don’t get many of these. There’s lots of steps to delivering one of these.”

My stomach curdles. It has to be something with either Norville or Wanda. Are they getting out early? I don’t want them anywhere near my baby. Another good reason to leave town.

“You have to sign right here,” Mr. Emory shows me where I have to sign.

“You have to print your name too.”

“Okay.” I try to smile. He’s so nice, but it’s tough when I want him gone and I just want to read the letter.

I do what he says as fast as I can. He rips off the part I signed from the envelope. “This is what goes back to the sender, it proves you received it,” he explains.

“Oh,” I pretend to care.

“I hope it’s good news, Mizz Trenda.” He smiles and puts two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute then turns and heads down my walkway. I shut the door.

I start trembling as I see the letter has the name of a law firm on it. Now I know it has something to do with one of my parents. My legs give out just as I reach the sofa and I fall into the cushions with the letter still in my hands.

Stop looking at the damn thing and open it, you coward!

I rip open the envelope and take out the fancy piece of stationery. I start reading the letter.

Ms. Avery,

This is the second letter that we are sending you. We hope that this one you won’t disregard.

It has come to my firm’s attention that you have a vested interest in the estate of the late Brantley T. Harris. Unfortunately, the reading of the will has already taken place, but our due diligence on behalf of our former client compels us to reach out to you so that you and your daughter’s interests are seen to as Mr. Harris wanted.

Please get ahold of me immediately at the following email address or telephone number listed below.

Respectfully Yours,

Horace Grant

Attorney At Law

Fetterman, Grant and Peterson, LLP

Everything hits me at once. No wonder I’ve been getting those emails—Carla Harris knew that I would be getting some kind of communication from Brantley’s attorney’s and she didn’t want me to answer them.