Miki sat with the letter in her hands while tears tracked down her cheeks and spilled onto the paper. The pain of Kurt hitting her was nothing beside this. So much sadness was exploding inside her. Why hadn’t her parents told her she had a grandmother? She couldn’t understand it—had it truly been because of their religion, as this letter suggested? But God taught of love and acceptance, the importance of family. If her parents had been close to God, how had they cut family out? And how had her mother felt about losing contact with her own mother? It was tragic. Miki couldn’t imagine erasing such an important bond. If the house fire hadn’t taken her parents, Miki and her mother would still be connected. She would always grieve this loss.

And where did this leave her relationship with Kurt? He had been receiving money that was meant to be hers and spending it all on himself. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her to leave home, because his regular payments would have ceased. The income from her grandmother had been financing the shop and his other acquisitions. The two utes. The new boat. The gym equipment. So, why the need to sell drugs? Was that his strategy to sustain himself after Miki became independent? She was beginning to understand many things.

She wondered, now, if Kurt actually cared about her, or whether she had simply been a means to an end. A source of income? No, he must have feelings for her. They’d shared so much. Their childhood. The loss of their parents and the farm. The forest. Didn’t that count for something?

And then, with a surge of sadness, she realised Kurt would never have told her about her grandmother’s letter and the money. He would have taken the income as long as he could, and maybe, eventually, he might have let her move on. It was clear to her now, that he’d burned down the shop, not just to hide the evidence of his drug dealings, but also to get rid of this letter.

So why hadn’t he disposed of it earlier? And why had he held on to the black folder? A shred of guilt? It wasn’t enough to absolve him.

She glanced down at the birthday cards, wondering why her mother had kept them. Surely she must have wanted Miki to read them one day and learn the truth.

This was her mother’s gift to her. A grandmother. Someone who cared.

Leaving the letter and cards on the table, she stood and walked out of the front door into Geraldine’s garden. After the rain, the roses along the front fence had rebounded, their pink heads bobbing in the quickening breeze that gusted up the street. The cold front had passed, and though the sky was grey it was lighter now, heading towards warmer weather.