Chapter 7: The Secret My Mother Took to Her Grave
“Your mother and Patricia knew each other.””
My father's words echoed through the phone long after he stopped speaking.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the blue envelope resting beside me, its contents spread across the quilt. The photograph of my mother at Hartwell lay faceup, her younger self smiling beside a woman I now recognized as Dr. Elaine Porter.
Somewhere downstairs, the house creaked as the heating system switched on.
“Dad,” I said carefully, “what exactly are you telling me?””
He exhaled.
“I'm telling you that your mother and Patricia knew each other before Patricia married me.””
“How well?””
“I don't know all the details.””
“You just said there was something you should have told me years ago.””
Another silence.
Then he said, “When I met Patricia, she told me she'd worked in fashion for a while. She'd been involved in a small design business. Your mother had apparently worked with her.””
I looked at the photograph again.
“Worked with her doing what?””
“Designing clothes, I think. I never asked many questions. Your mother didn't like talking about that period of her life, and Patricia said it was complicated.””
I felt anger rising through my chest.
“So you knew they had a history, and you never thought to tell me?””
“I didn't think it mattered.””
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course you didn't.””
“Emma, don't do this.””
“Don't do what? Ask why my mother never told me about her connection to the school that just gave me a scholarship?””
His voice hardened.
“I am trying to explain.””
“And I'm trying to understand why everyone in this family seems to know something except me.””
I heard a door close on his end of the call.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“Come back to the school. We'll talk there. I don't want to discuss this over the phone.””
I looked at the letter.
You are allowed to want something for yourself.
My mother had written those words years before I understood how badly I needed them.
“I'm coming,” I said.
“But Dad, I'm not going to pretend nothing happened tonight.””
“I didn't ask you to.””
“You've spent years asking me to do exactly that.””
He didn't answer.
I ended the call.
Mrs. Bennett was waiting downstairs, reviewing messages on her phone. When I showed her the photograph and the letter, she read them carefully without interrupting.
“Your mother had an exhibition at Hartwell,” she said.
“That's significant.””
“She never told me.””
“Sometimes people leave parts of their lives behind because remembering them hurts.””
I folded the letter.
“Do you think Dr. Porter recognized my design?””
“It's possible. But we shouldn't assume anything until you speak to her.””
Mrs. Bennett glanced at the clock.
“We should return. And Emma, whatever this family history turns out to be, your scholarship was awarded on the merits of your work. Don't let anyone make you believe otherwise.””
I slipped the documents into my clutch.
Then we drove back to the school.
The ballroom was still full when we arrived, although the energy had changed. Students were dancing beneath the lights, and teachers were moving between tables collecting abandoned cups.
My father stood near the entrance with Patricia.
Vanessa was beside them, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
The moment she saw me, she approached.
“Where have you been?””
I walked past her.
“I'm not discussing this with you.””
She grabbed my elbow.
“Don't you dare walk away from me.””
Mrs. Bennett stepped between us.
“Vanessa, let go.””
Vanessa released my arm, but her expression remained furious.
“You've been telling everyone lies about me!””
I looked at her.
“I haven't told anyone anything you didn't already say or do.””
Her cheeks flushed.
Patricia hurried toward us.
“What's going on now?””
My father stepped forward.
“Emma, we need to talk.””
“Then let's talk.””
I pulled the blue envelope from my clutch and held it up.
“Mom left me these documents. She had a connection to Hartwell, and apparently she knew Patricia before you married her.””
Patricia went pale.
For the first time since I'd known her, she looked genuinely frightened.
“Where did you get that?”” she demanded.
“Mom's design notebook.””
She reached toward the envelope.
“Give it to me.””
I stepped back.
“No.””
“Emma, those papers are private.””
“They belonged to my mother.””
“They concern a business arrangement that ended years ago.””
My father looked at Patricia.
“What business arrangement?””
She turned toward him.
“Richard, this is not the place.””
“You told me you barely knew her.””
“I said I hadn't spoken to her in years.””
“You said you worked with her.””
“I did.””
I stared at Patricia.
“Then why have you spent years telling everyone that Mom wasn't interested in fashion?””
Her mouth tightened.
“I never said that.””
“You told me she was a hobbyist. You said she couldn't have made a career out of sewing because she lacked formal training.””
Patricia glanced at Vanessa, then back at me.
“Your mother had talent, Emma. But talent isn't everything.””
“Then why are you so afraid of these papers?””
A group of students passed nearby, laughing and carrying plates of cake.
Patricia lowered her voice.
“Because you don't understand what you're holding.””
“Then explain it.””
She looked at my father.
He stood motionless, his face pale.
Finally, Patricia said, “Your mother and I started a small design venture when we were young. We worked together for less than a year. It ended badly, and we went our separate ways.””
“What went wrong?””
“Creative differences.””
I shook my head.
“That's not what Dad said.””
My father frowned.
“What did I say?””
I turned toward him.
“You said there was something you should have told me years ago.””
He rubbed his forehead.
“Patricia, I think it's time you explained everything.””
She looked as though she'd swallowed something bitter.
Then she straightened her shoulders.
“Fine. Your mother and I developed a collection together. We were supposed to present it to a group of investors. But she changed several designs at the last minute, and the project fell apart.””
“Why?””
“Because she refused to compromise.””
I looked at the sketches in my envelope.
“Did you steal her designs?””
Patricia's face hardened.
“How dare you?””
“I'm asking a question.””
“And I'm telling you that your mother was difficult to work with.””
Vanessa stepped forward.
“Mom, why are we even talking about this? Emma won her little scholarship. Great. Can we move on?””
Patricia seized the opportunity.
“Exactly. Whatever happened decades ago has nothing to do with tonight.””
I held up the photograph.
“Then why is your name written on the back of this?””
Patricia stared at it.
Her face drained of color.
I turned the photograph over.
Beneath the exhibition date, my mother's handwriting read:
Patricia promised she'd stand beside me when the collection launched. I hope she remembers what we promised each other.
I looked up.
“What did you promise her?””
Patricia's lips parted, but no answer came.
My father took the photograph from my hand and studied it.
“Patricia?””
She looked away.
Then Dr. Porter appeared behind us.
“Is everything all right?””
I turned.
“Dr. Porter, did you know my mother?””
Her expression changed the moment she saw the photograph.
“Of course I did,” she said softly.
“Your mother was one of the most promising young designers I ever met.””
Patricia closed her eyes.
Dr. Porter looked at her.
“And I see you've finally decided to discuss what happened.””
The words fell into the silence like stones.
My father stared at her.
“What happened?””
Dr. Porter hesitated.
“This isn't a conversation I should have without reviewing the original records. But I can tell you that your mother's work was far more important than she ever allowed herself to believe.””
She turned toward me.
“Emma, I would like to see those sketches tomorrow. There may be something in them that deserves a closer look.””
Patricia immediately shook her head.
“No. That's unnecessary.””
Dr. Porter looked at her coolly.
“Why?””
“Because the matter is private.””
“Private matters don't give anyone the right to misrepresent another person's work.””
Vanessa looked from one adult to another.
“Mom, what is she talking about?””
Patricia didn't answer.
For the first time, Vanessa seemed to understand that something much larger than a prom competition was unfolding around her.
I looked at Dr. Porter.
“Did my mother lose something because of Patricia?””
The older woman took a slow breath.
“I think the records will answer that question more accurately than I can tonight.””
She paused.
“But I remember your mother's final exhibition very clearly. And I remember why she never returned to Hartwell.””
My throat tightened.
“Why?””
Dr. Porter glanced toward Patricia.
Then she looked back at me.
“Because someone took credit for her work.””
The ballroom seemed to fall away.
I heard the music, the laughter, the distant clink of glasses, but they suddenly felt miles away.
My mother had spent years telling me to believe in my own creativity.
She had never told me that someone had once tried to take it away from her.
I turned toward Patricia.
She stood rigidly beneath the lights, her face carefully composed.
But her hands were shaking.
And that was when I understood the real reason she had wanted me to fail.
It wasn't simply jealousy.
It was recognition.
She had seen something of my mother in the dress I'd created.
And she was terrified that I might uncover the truth about what had happened to her.
Before I could ask another question, Patricia reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.
“Richard,” she said sharply, “we need to leave. Now.””
My father didn't move.
“No,” he replied.
“I think we're finally going to finish this conversation.””
Patricia stared at him.
Then her phone vibrated.
She glanced at the screen, and whatever she read made her face turn white.
I caught only a few words before she locked it.
*Hartwell archive. Original contract.*
May you like
And beneath them, a name.
My mother's.
