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Chapter 8 - My Mother’s NotebookOwen ignored me.

Not completely.

He did not open metal box.

Instead he searched our mother’s old sewing room.

There he found notebook.

Mom had managed community-center finances before illness became severe.

Her handwriting filled pages.

One entry six months before fire:

Robert says Nathan’s bid easiest. I told him conflict must be disclosed. He says paperwork will slow project.

Another:

$120k transferred but west hall still smells like hot plastic when lights run.

My mother had noticed.

Before she died.

Dad had kept notebook.

Maybe forgotten.

Owen gave it to his school counselor, who contacted investigators.

That was smarter than carrying it around.

I told him so.

He said:

“Can I get medal?”

“No.”

May you like

“Rude.”

For first time since fire, we laughed about something connected to home.

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