"Yes."
"He always let you choose the bait."
I smiled faintly.
"I remember."
"He used to say you had patience."
I looked at him.
"He said you were good at making people laugh."
Jonathan gave a quiet laugh.
"I remember that too."
He looked out toward the water.
"I think I spent most of my life trying to be the person Mom wanted."
I didn't answer.
He continued.
"When Dad became sick, Mom started treating everything like a crisis. Money. Medical bills. The house. Her plans."
He lowered his voice.
"She kept telling me that I had to be successful because the family needed someone to be successful."
I watched him.
"She told you that?"
"All the time."
He took a sip of coffee.
"And when I achieved something, she celebrated it. When I failed, she told me I needed to work harder."
I waited.
He looked at me.
"I thought that was love."
I considered his words.
"Maybe it was the only kind of love she knew how to give."
He nodded.
"But it wasn't enough."
For the first time, Jonathan seemed willing to admit something about our mother without immediately defending her.
He opened his phone and showed me an old photograph.
It was taken at a family gathering.
He was standing beside our mother.
I was sitting on the steps in the background.
Our father was beside me.
"Do you remember this?"
"Yes."
"I think it was my college graduation."
"It was."
He studied the photograph.
"I used to think you were jealous of me."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because Mom always praised me."
I let out a slow breath.
"I wasn't jealous of your achievements, Jonathan."
"Then what were you?"
"Lonely."
He looked down.
The word seemed to affect him more than an accusation would have.
I continued.
"I wanted Mom to ask about my day. I wanted her to be interested in what I was doing. I wanted her to attend my graduation."
Jonathan closed his eyes.
"I didn't know."
"You never asked."
He nodded.
"I know."
For several minutes, we sat in silence.
Then he asked:
"Did you ever hate me?"
I considered the question.
"Sometimes."
He looked up.
I continued.
"Not because you were successful. Because you watched me get thrown out and made a joke about taking my room."
His face tightened.
"I remember."
"Do you remember what you said?"
He nodded.
"I do."
I waited.
He looked down at the table.
"I was cruel."
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny."
"I know."
He swallowed.
"I am sorry."
The apology was quiet.
There was no dramatic speech.
No attempt to explain it away.
Just three words.
I did not immediately forgive him.
But I appreciated that he had finally said them.
He leaned back.
"There's something else."
I looked at him.
"Go on."
"About Dad's financial records."
I straightened.
"What about them?"
"I spoke to Mom last night."
"And?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"She said she was using money from the family account to cover household expenses."
"Was she?"
"Some of it, apparently."
I frowned.
"That doesn't explain the medical payments."
"I know."
He looked toward the window.
"She said she had been moving money between accounts because the medical bills were becoming difficult to manage."
"Did she show you the records?"
"No."
"Did she explain the transfers?"
"Not properly."
I stared at him.
"Jonathan, if Dad's money was being misused, we need to know."
"I agree."
He looked uncomfortable.
"But I don't want to destroy Mom."
I softened slightly.
"Finding out the truth isn't the same as destroying someone."
He nodded.
"I know."
Then he asked something I hadn't expected.
"Would you help me understand the foundation?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"I want to know how it works. What Dad wanted. What you are doing."
I studied his face.
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"Because I think I spent too long believing money was the most important thing Dad could leave us."
I looked at the coffee cup.
"Maybe he wanted to leave something more important."
Jonathan nodded.
"I think so."
We spoke for almost two hours.
He told me about his company.
I told him about the Navy.
He asked about my command responsibilities, and I explained how different military leadership was from running a private business.
For the first time, our conversation felt like two adults getting to know each other.
Not two children competing for our mother's approval.
When we finally stood to leave, Jonathan hesitated.
"Victoria?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think we could start over?"
I looked at him.
"No."
His expression fell.
Then I continued.
"We can't start over. We can only start from where we are."
He nodded slowly.
"That's fair."
I picked up my coat.
"Jonathan, if you want a relationship with me, it has to be honest."
"It will be."
"And it has to be consistent."
"I understand."
I opened the door.
Before leaving, I turned back.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"Stop calling my career a hobby."
He gave a small smile.
"I won't."
I left the café.
For the first time in years, I felt that my brother might become someone I could actually talk to.
But the situation with my mother remained unresolved.
And that afternoon, Jonathan called me again.
His voice was different.
"Victoria, you need to come to the house."
"Why?"
"Mom has found something."
"What?"
He paused.
"One of Dad's old bank statements."
I gripped the telephone.
"What's wrong with it?"
"There's a transfer."
"How much?"
He told me the amount.
I stood silently.
It was significantly larger than any of the payments shown in Richard's report.
"Where did the money go?" I asked.
Jonathan hesitated.
"That's the problem."
"What?"
"The account belongs to someone we know."
I felt a cold sensation in my chest.
"Who?"
He lowered his voice.
"Mom's younger sister."
I stared at the wall.
My aunt, Margaret Hayes, had always been close to my mother.
She had visited the house regularly.
She had attended every family celebration.
And she had always treated me with kindness.
At least, that was what I believed.
Jonathan continued.
"Mom says it was a loan."
"Did Dad approve it?"
"She says he did."
"Then why did he ask Richard to investigate?"
"I don't know."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I thought about the letters beneath the floorboards.
The financial records.
My father's final instructions.
And the sealed envelope addressed to my mother.
Everything seemed connected.
"Where are you now?" I asked.
"At home."
"I'll come."
After ending the call, I looked at the old compass sitting on my desk.
Its needle pointed north.
I picked it up.
Then I placed it in my coat pocket.
I had spent twenty-five years trying to understand why my mother had sent me away.
Now I was beginning to discover that the night I left was only one part of a much larger story.
And the next truth might be even harder to accept.