Chapter 6 - EIRA’S MOTHER
Eira remembered her mother through stories.
That was inevitable.
Her mother died when Eira was eighteen months old.
A sudden cerebral aneurysm.
No mystery.
No family conspiracy.
No hidden medical negligence.
One morning my wife complained of the worst headache of her life.
By evening, I was sitting beside a hospital bed listening to machines.
Three days later, she was gone.
Eira remembered almost nothing consciously.
A smell.
A song.
Maybe not even real memories.
But photographs gave shape to what she had lost.
The locket gave touch.
The box gave permission to ask.
I had not understood how important that was because the box hurt me.
That was my second major mistake.
After I began dating Ainsley, she asked why I kept so many things.
“I don’t know.”
“Does it help?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
Then I said:
“I want Eira to have a life, not a museum.”
Ainsley answered:
“Then we build one.”
At the time, it sounded hopeful.
Over the next two years:
Two photographs moved from the living room.
A coat went into storage.
My late wife’s books were boxed.
Wedding china donated.
None alone seemed cruel.
I agreed to most.
Then Eira began getting older.
Asking.
Who is that?
Did Mommy like pancakes?
Did Mommy sing?
Was Mommy scared of spiders?
Ainsley’s discomfort grew exactly when Eira’s curiosity did.
I missed it.
Brynn did not.
My sister came to the house after Eira’s therapy appointment.
“You let Ainsley treat grief like competition.”
I stared at her.
“That’s fair.”
She looked surprised.
“You’re not going to fight me?”
“I’m tired of fighting facts.”
Good.
We found the old photo albums.
Three had been moved to an off-site storage unit.
Ainsley arranged it.
Not destroyed.
Important.
Letters too.
Most items remained.
Why sell only jewelry?
Money.
Why remove photographs?
Jealousy.
Two motives.
Separate.
That was more believable than a giant single conspiracy.
Then Eira’s child therapist, Maya Chen, gave me instructions.
Do not turn her mother into a courtroom topic.
Do not ask:
What did Ainsley say about Mommy?
Use open questions only if Eira brings it up.
Maintain routines.
Do not promise permanent outcomes a court controls.
Good.
At home, Eira asked:
“Is Ainsley coming back?”
“Not right now.”
“Wedding?”
“No.”
“Because she hit me?”
“Because many things happened that mean we are not getting married.”
Eira stared at me.
“Did I break wedding?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
She climbed onto my lap.
“Can I see Mommy pictures?”
I almost said:
Of course.
Then realized how many months it had been since I offered.
“Yes.”
We spent an hour with the album.
Not every night afterward.
No grief ritual forced onto her.
Just access.
At the end, Eira touched one photograph.
Her mother holding her as a baby.
“Mommy pretty.”
“Yes.”
“Like Ainsley?”
I paused.
“Different.”
“Who prettier?”
I laughed.
“Absolutely not answering.”
She smiled.
Good.
Later Naomi called.
Police had received the document examiner’s preliminary report.
The signature authorizing jewelry sale was digitally reproduced from my estate-access form.
Not handwritten.
The metadata showed the file had been created on Ainsley’s laptop.
That was evidence of forgery.
Then:
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“She created three versions.”
“Why?”
“Different property lists.”
“How many items?”
Naomi paused.
“Potentially seventeen.”
Only two had been sold.
But Ainsley had prepared paperwork to sell fifteen more.
May you like
The box was not the end of her plan.
It was the next shipment.
