Chapter 10
I stood outside the door, suddenly unable to move forward, fear rooting me in place.
I heard footsteps from nearby.
Leonard approached, holding a black umbrella.
Snowflakes fell onto the umbrella, their gentle whisper filling the air.
He was dressed in a long, dark coat, looking calm and collected, with a brown paper bag in his hand.
"Ms. Richardson," Leonard said.
I turned to look at him.
"Have you been waiting here long?" he asked.
"Just got here," I replied.
He walked up to the iron gate, but instead of opening it right away, he handed me the paper bag.
"Inside are copies of the property deed, a trust summary, and a preliminary statement about your mother's manuscript copyright," he explained.
I accepted the bag from him.
The bag wasn't heavy, but its weight pressed into my palm, making it almost too much to bear.
Leonard noticed my hesitation and said calmly, "You can take a look first, or we can go inside."
I lowered my gaze to the nameplate, letting my eyes rest on the word "Richardson" for a long moment.
After a while, I finally murmured, "Let's go inside."
Leonard pulled a set of keys from his coat pocket.
The keys were old, their copper edges worn and dull.
As Leonard slid the key into the lock, it made a faint, grating sound.
The door opened.
The yard was covered in fallen leaves.
It looked like no one had cleaned up in ages. The stone path was half-buried in dead leaves, and there was a broken clay flowerpot in the corner.
Under the eaves, a wind chime hung.
When the wind blew, its sound was faint and raspy.
It sounded like an echo from the distant past.
I stood at the doorway, and for some reason, my eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Everything there felt so unfamiliar.
Yet, meanwhile, it felt so familiar.
On the left side of the yard stood an orange tree, its branches bare except for a few sparse leaves, a reminder of winter's chill.
Under the tree sat a small wooden chair.
Suddenly, a blurry image flashed through my mind.
A woman sat on the wooden chair, her head bowed as she peeled an orange for me.
Her fingers were delicate, her nails neatly trimmed.
She smiled gently, her voice soft as she said, 'Monica, slow down. Is it sour?'
I felt a sharp pain in my chest, sudden and overwhelming.
That woman was my mom.
I hadn't thought about her voice in ages.
Leonard didn't rush me.
He stood quietly off to the side, silent and unmoving, like a tree in winter.
After a long while, I finally spoke. "Has this house always been under my name?"
"Yes," Leonard replied.
He paused for a moment.
"After you turned eighteen, you had every right to know about it and decide what to do," he added.
I slowly turned to look at him. "But I never knew."
Leonard looked at me, his eyes calm and unreadable, but he didn't look away.
"That's why I reached out to you," he said.
I understood what he left unsaid.
He wasn't there to give me a surprise.
He was there to tell me that someone had been hiding the truth from me for years.
I pushed open the door.
Inside, there was a faint scent of old wood, tinged with dust.
All the furniture was draped in white sheets.
The curtains were pulled tightly shut, letting only a few slivers of sunlight slip through, turning the dust in the air into slender columns of light.
A painting hung on the living room wall.
The sheet didn't fully cover the painting, and a sliver of blue was visible in the corner.
I walked over, pausing for a moment before lifting the sheet.
It was a blue bird.
Its wings were spread wide, flying out through a half-open window.
The brushstrokes were simple, but the colors were striking and bright.
In the bottom right corner, there was a line of tiny writing.
It said: [Monica drew this when she was six. Nora finished the colors.]
My tears fell instantly.
I did draw a bird when I was six.
Back then, I couldn't get the wings to match. One was way bigger than the other, like it was about to fall out of the sky.
My mom sat beside me, smiling gently as she said, "Monica, sweetheart, your bird is free to fly. It doesn't have to follow the rules."
I never drew birds again after that.
When I moved in with the Shelton family, Selena complained that I was messing up the table with my drawings, so Regina enrolled me in piano lessons.
She said, "A girl should play the piano. That's more ladylike."
But I never liked playing the piano.
I was into colors, paper, and fixing up broken drawings bit by bit.
So when I got to college, I secretly enrolled in restoration of old book illustrations.
When Regina found out, she kept sighing.
She said, "Monica, you're already so reserved. Why choose something so obscure?"
Matthew said, "As long as you like it, that's what matters. But don't push yourself too hard. Girls don't need to try so hard."
No one ever told me that when I was little, I was allowed to draw a bird however I wanted, even if it looked all wrong.
Leonard quietly handed me a tissue.
I grabbed it and wiped at my eyes, not caring how messy I looked.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"You don't have to apologize," Leonard said softly. "This is your house. You can cry here."
He said a few simple words.
But that made me want to cry all over again.
When I lived with the Sheltons, I had to hide under my blanket if I wanted to cry.
With Matthew, I had to hold back my tears, afraid he'd think I was being too sensitive.
It was like I needed approval to cry.
But Leonard said, "This is your house. You can cry here."
I lowered my head and gave a small, shaky laugh, but my tears still fell onto the paper bag.
Leonard led me upstairs to the study.
The study was in better shape than the living room.
The bookshelf held sample illustrations from old books my mom had restored when she was alive, and there was an old iron box on the desk.