PART 2 — The letter of the dead
The handwritten words on the paper were unmistakably Willem’s. His familiar, powerful handwriting that always seemed to weigh what it wrote down was neatly placed on the lined paper. My breath caught in my throat. How could there be a letter from him delivered only after this specific event?
The staff member of the care center, a friendly young woman named Lisa, saw my pale face and asked with concern if I was alright. I nodded mechanically, even though my heart was racing like a trapped bird. I gestured that I wanted to be alone for a moment. Lisa hesitantly withdrew and softly closed the door behind her.
I let myself sink into the wooden chair by the window. Outside, the rain tapped unceasingly against the glass, exactly like the day Mark had locked me out. I brought the letter closer to the daylight and read on.
“Dear Anna,” it began. “If you are reading this, it means our son has shown his true face. I am sorry I didn't speak out more firmly about this beforehand, but I saw it coming for years. Mark has been shaped by prosperity, not by struggle. He never learned to appreciate what was built with sweat.”
I stared at the sentences. Willem had known. Years ago already. I suddenly remembered that shortly before his passing, Willem had spoken at length with the notary. I had thought back then that it concerned a standard will, a simple transfer of properties. But now it turned out there was much more behind it.
The letter continued: “The house on Lindelaan is not just stone and cement, Anna. Beneath the foundation of the old conservatory lies something Mark will never find unless he is willing to break what he thinks he owns. But the real will lies with notary Van Houten in the village. There is a condition attached to the ownership. A condition that Mark today blindly ignored because he thought you were just a weak, old woman who would step aside without a fight.”
My hands shook so violently that the paper almost slipped from my fingers. What kind of condition? What on earth had Willem devised?
I put the letter down for a moment and looked at the small photo of Willem on the nightstand. His eyes seemed to look at me from the frame with a mixture of love and warning. He had always wanted to protect me, even from beyond the grave. But at that moment I felt no relief. I felt a cold anger rising. An anger I had never felt toward my son in all those decades as a mother. Mark thought he had won. He thought he had banished his mother to the margins of oblivion. But he had no idea of the storm he had just unleashed.
