The first person I spoke to after Derek's call was my attorney.
I told her what he had asked for and repeated his promise about my parents' home.
She listened carefully.
"Did he explain why he wanted the records returned?"
"No. He said things were complicated."
"And did he offer any explanation for the insurance policy?"
"No."
She made a note.
"Then we shouldn't treat his promises as answers."
I knew she was right.
Still, I felt uneasy about what would happen next.
My parents had spent years presenting themselves as respectable people who had worked hard for everything they owned. The house, the holiday dinners, the business connections, and the expensive things Vanessa liked to display were all part of that image.
I had never been especially impressed by those things.
But I had cared about my parents.
That was the part I struggled to separate from everything else.
My attorney explained that the documents needed to be reviewed through the appropriate channels. We would preserve the material, establish what could be verified, and avoid making claims the evidence did not support.
I agreed.
I also contacted the legal department at my firm.
I explained that records I had received privately appeared to overlap with an ongoing investigation involving companies connected to Derek.
I did not want a personal situation to compromise my professional responsibilities.
The legal department arranged for the material to be reviewed and for any necessary disclosures to be handled properly.
For the first time, I felt I had taken a step that didn't depend on my family agreeing with me.
That evening, my phone began ringing.
My mother called first.
I let it ring until it stopped.
Then she called again.
I watched her name appear on the screen and thought about the hospital room.
I had waited for her to call me.
Now she was calling because I had refused to give her something.
The difference was difficult to ignore.
Eventually, I answered.
"Claire, what are you doing?"
I sat down at the kitchen table.
"Talking to you, apparently."
"Don't be sarcastic with me."
"I'm not trying to be."
She sighed sharply.
"Your father says you've taken documents that you don't understand."
"I received documents. I'm having them reviewed."
"By whom?"
"My attorney."
There was a long silence.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Do you understand what this could do to your family?"
I looked at the brass key beside my computer.
"I understand that there are questions that need answers."
"Your father has worked his whole life."
"So have I."
She ignored that.
"Vanessa is frightened. Derek is under enormous pressure. Everyone is worried, and you seem determined to make matters worse."
I almost told her that I had been frightened, too.
I had been lying in a hospital bed, unable to move comfortably, wondering whether I would recover.
But my mother hadn't wanted to hear about that.
I decided not to beg her to understand it now.
"I'm not making decisions for Derek or Dad," I said. "I'm making sure the records are handled properly."
"You're supposed to be helping us."
"How?"
She didn't answer.
I waited.
Then she said something that made my stomach tighten.
"You could have brought those documents to your father instead of involving outsiders."
I looked at the insurance document in my folder.
"Mom, Dad is named in some of the records."
"He can explain that."
"Then he can explain it through the proper process."
She exhaled as if I had exhausted her patience.
"You've always been stubborn when you decide you're right."
I knew that tone.
It was the tone she used when she wanted me to doubt myself without having to answer the question.
For years, it had worked.
I would soften my position, apologize for my delivery, and try to make the conversation comfortable again.
This time, I didn't apologize.
"I'm not going to argue with you about this."
"Claire—"
"I need to rest."
I ended the call.
Then I sat quietly for several minutes.
I wasn't proud of how cold the conversation had become.
Part of me still wanted to hear my mother say that she understood why I was upset.
I wanted her to admit that the hospital call had been wrong.
But I was beginning to understand that I could not make someone acknowledge a hurt simply by explaining it more carefully.
The following day, my attorney and the relevant professionals continued reviewing the records.
I returned to work only as my recovery allowed, and I followed the guidance of the people responsible for the investigation.
I did not use my position to reach conclusions about my relatives.
I did not assume every document proved wrongdoing.
I waited for the evidence to be examined.
That was what my job required.
It was also what the situation required.
Over the next several days, I learned that the records raised substantial questions about the financial relationships among several companies.
Some property transfers required further explanation.
Certain financial statements appeared inconsistent with other supporting material.
The connections between businesses had not always been clearly disclosed.
Payments involving accounts associated with my parents also required scrutiny.
None of those facts, by themselves, told me everything that had happened.
But together, they justified further investigation.
The process moved beyond my private concerns.
The relevant authorities received information through the appropriate channels, and the investigation expanded.
My father continued insisting that Derek had misled him.
Derek maintained that the situation was more complicated than I understood.
Vanessa said she had never known the full details of the arrangements.
My mother said I was tearing the family apart.
I heard versions of those statements from different people.
What I did not hear was a clear explanation of the insurance policy.
That question remained.
I had no evidence that my accident had been anything other than the collision described in the initial report.
I refused to turn my fear into an accusation.
But I also refused to pretend the policy was unimportant.
My attorney continued pursuing the records necessary to understand how it had been established and why Mercer Holdings had been named as the beneficiary.
I wanted an answer that could be supported by documents, not another promise from my father.
One afternoon, I returned home after a difficult day of recovery and work.
The apartment was quiet.
I made tea and sat beside the window.
Snow had begun gathering along the edges of the pavement.
I thought about how different my life had looked only a few weeks earlier.
Before the accident, I had been preparing to spend Thanksgiving with my family.
I had bought my mother perfume.
I had expected the usual dinner, the usual comparisons, and the usual effort to keep everyone happy.
I had believed that if I remained patient, there would always be another opportunity to make things better.
Now I was learning that patience could become an excuse for accepting things I should have questioned.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Vanessa appeared.
She wanted to know whether I had spoken to Derek again.
I typed a reply, then deleted it.
I tried again.
I told her that any questions about the records should be handled through the appropriate people.
She answered almost immediately.
"You don't have to destroy everything."
I read the sentence several times.
I thought about the messages on the flash drive.
I thought about the way she had spoken outside my door.
I thought about how she had never asked whether I was recovering.
I wanted to tell her that she had helped create the distance between us long before I received the package.
Instead, I put the phone down.
I was not ready to have that conversation.
And I was no longer willing to pretend that one conversation could repair everything.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: My Mother Finally Asked About the Hospital, but Her Explanation Revealed How Much She Still Expected Me to Forgive
The Phone Call That Made Me Understand Where I Stood in My Family, Before I Even Knew What Had Happened to Me
Part 5 of 12
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