Thomas went quiet.
I pulled it free. A company name was printed across the top.
“Why is Mom’s bakery in your files?”
Another document caught my eye.
“Rachel…”
“Why?”
“Because when she sold it, she believed a local investment company bought it.”
I looked at the company name again.
My stomach tightened. “You owned it.”
The address was the bakery.
“Yes.”
“You bought Mom’s bakery?”
“Through an intermediary.”
“Why?”
“Because it belonged to her family. I thought someday I could return it.”
You owned it.
“Did she know?”
“Eventually.”
“And?”
“She told me never to mention it again.”
I looked back at the address. “What I never understood was why nobody had bought that place. Everything else on that block changed hands.”
Someday I could return it.
Thomas lowered his eyes. “I never put it up for sale.”
“You kept an empty building for decades?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because selling it felt like erasing the last thing I could still return.”
I never put it up for sale.
I walked toward the door.
“Rachel, wait.”
“What else?”
“I want to give you what I should have given you years ago. Money. Part of my estate. Whatever you need.”
I stared at him. “I don’t want forty years of guilt in a bank account.”
Erasing the last thing.
“It isn’t guilt.”
“It absolutely is.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
I almost said nothing.
Then I thought of Mom behind that counter. Of the dusty windows. Of all the years I’d told myself I was too old, too broke, too late.
Whatever you need.
Owning the building wouldn’t make any of that less frightening.
But maybe being afraid wasn’t a good enough reason to spend another twenty years doing nothing.
“Give me the bakery.”
Thomas blinked. “The building?”
