Page 80 of Never Been Gargoyled
Inside Helga's bedroom, I ran my hands along the walls, tapping for hollow sounds but nothing sounded odd. I moved to the closet, checking behind dusty, hanging clothes and feeling along the back wall. Still nothing.
The dresser next. I pulled out each drawer, looking for false bottoms or hidden compartments. Empty.
Frustration gnawed at me as I stared around the room. There had to be something. Helga had lived here for decades, had cared deeply about this place. She wouldn't have made such a significant decision without a good reason.
My gaze fell on the portrait hanging above the bed, one of a woman I didn't recognize, probably some long-dead relative. It was the kind of ornate frame that might conceal…
I flew up to examine it more closely. The frame was thick, heavy, mounted with sturdy brackets. When I pressed against one corner, it creaked.
A hidden hinge.
My pulse quickened as I carefully eased the portrait away from the wall. Behind it, set into the plaster, Ifound a small safe with an old-fashioned combination lock.
“Hells,” I breathed.
What would Helga have used for the combination? I tried her birthday, but that didn’t work. The year she'd inherited the estate. Still didn’t open.
Think. What mattered most to Helga?
I tried the year she'd first started the gardens.
The lock clicked open.
Inside, I found documents, photographs, and a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. My hands shook as I lifted them out.Rebecca Hartwellhad been written in the return address corner.
Each had been opened. This could prove that Helga was aware her daughter was alive and where she could find her, yet she hadn’t approached her, not even once, according to Rebecca.
I untied the ribbon with careful fingers and tugged the first letter from the top envelope, one dated twenty-eight years ago.
Dear Mother,
I've been thinking about you every day since I found your name on my adoption papers. I know you probably had your reasons for giving me up, and I'm not angry. I just want to know you. I want to understand where I came from.
I have a good life. My adoptive parents love me, and I've done well for myself. I'm not looking for money or anything like that. I just want to meet you. To hear your voice. To know if I have your eyes or your smile.
Please write back. Please give me a chance.
Your daughter,Rebecca
I opened the next one, dated six months later.
Dear Mother,
I haven't heard back from my first letter, but I'm hoping it got lost in the mail. I'm sending pictures this time, in case you want to see how I turned out. The one of me graduating college might make you proud.
I’m a good person. You’re my mother! You really should give me a chance.
I've been researching our family history. Did you know we're related to the Morrisons who built the first mill in Harmony Glen? I found records going back to the 1800s. If you’d bother to reply to my letters, we could talk about it together.
Rebecca
My throat tightened as I read through letter after letter. Rebecca's tone quickly shifted from hopeful to desperate to bitter as years passed without a response. She'd tried everything, from letters, to phone calls, to driving to Harmony Glen to walk past the estate, though she'd never approached the house.
The final letter was dated twenty years ago.
Helga,
I've stopped calling you Mother because it's clear you don't want to be one to me. I’ve spent too many years trying to reach you, and you've never once responded. Not even to tell me to leave you alone.
