Chapter 2: The Envelope in Mother's Sewing Box
I didn't sleep that night.
My cheek had swollen, and every time I touched it, the skin burned.
But the pain wasn't what kept me awake.
It was the sound of Brianna laughing downstairs.
At around one in the morning, I heard the front door open and close.
Then Vanessa's voice floated up the staircase.
“Careful with that dress. We can't afford to damage it before Saturday.””
Brianna giggled.
“Don't worry. It's going to look incredible on me.””
I sat on the edge of my bed.
My graduation dress.
They had taken it.
And they were planning to make Brianna wear something I had created.
I looked toward the photograph of my mother beside my bedside lamp.
She was smiling in the picture, wearing a blue blouse and holding a measuring tape around her neck.
I remembered the day it was taken.
I had been eight years old, and Mom had allowed me to help her sew a dress for a customer.
I had accidentally sewn one sleeve backward.
Instead of getting angry, she had laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Fashion is about imagination, Nia. Sometimes the best ideas begin with mistakes.””
I picked up the photograph.
“I'm trying, Mom.””
My voice cracked.
Then I remembered the envelope.
For Nia's Dreams.
Three weeks earlier, while searching for an old pattern, I had opened the wooden sewing box that had belonged to my mother.
It was one of the few things Vanessa hadn't managed to remove from the house.
Inside were spools of thread, fabric samples, measuring tapes, old photographs, and a collection of handwritten patterns.
At the bottom was a small envelope.
It looked different from the one I remembered.
This one was sealed with a strip of yellowed tape.
My name was written across the front.
I had opened it.
Inside was a folded letter and a bank statement.
The letter was dated four months before my mother's death.
It read:
My beautiful Nia,
If you are reading this, I hope you are old enough to understand why I have kept this money separate from the household accounts.
I want you to have choices when you grow up.
You may become a designer. You may become a doctor. You may decide that sewing is something you only want to do on weekends.
Whatever you choose, this money is yours.
I have arranged for it to remain protected until your eighteenth birthday.
Your father knows about the arrangement. Please remember that.
Never let anyone convince you that your dreams are too expensive.
All my love,
Mom.
I had stared at those words for nearly ten minutes.
The bank statement showed an account with a balance of $86,400.
I read the number repeatedly.
Eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars.
My mother had saved that money for me.
But when I had asked Dad about the envelope after he remarried, he told me the money had been spent on household expenses.
How could that be?
I had checked the statement again.
The account was listed as a custodial trust.
The beneficiary was me.
The responsible custodian was Marcus Carter.
And there was another name at the bottom.
A law firm.
Harrison, Bell and Associates.
I had searched for the firm at the public library.
It still existed.
The next morning, I called the number listed on its website.
A receptionist answered.
“Good morning. Harrison, Bell and Associates.””
“My name is Nia Carter. My mother was Elena Carter.””
There was a pause.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Could you repeat that?””
“My mother was Elena Carter. She passed away six years ago. I found some documents with your firm's name on them.””
Another pause.
“Please hold.””
A few moments later, a man's voice came through.
“This is Daniel Harrison.””
I explained who I was.
When I mentioned the trust, his voice became noticeably serious.
“Are you somewhere private, Nia?””
“Yes.””
“Do you have the original documents?””
“I have a copy of the statement and a letter from my mother.””
“Can you come to my office today?””
I glanced at the clock.
“I have school.””
“Then tomorrow afternoon. Bring everything you have. And don't discuss the documents with anyone until we've had a chance to review them.””
I swallowed.
“Why?””
“Because there are some things about your mother's estate that you deserve to understand.””
After the call, I sat motionless.
What had Dad known?
And why had he told me the money was gone?
At school, I couldn't concentrate.
My friend Tasha noticed the swelling on my cheek before lunch.
“What happened to your face?””
I pulled my hair forward.
“Nothing.””
“Nia.””
I looked at her.
She lowered her voice.
“Did somebody hit you?””
I didn't answer.
Her expression changed.
“Who?””
I glanced around the cafeteria.
“Vanessa.””
Tasha put down her sandwich.
“Your stepmother?””
I nodded.
“What?””
“She slapped me last night.””
Tasha stared at me.
“Why didn't you call the police?””
“Because I didn't know what to say. And my father was there.””
“Your father watched?””
“No. He wasn't there when it happened.””
She leaned forward.
“Nia, you can't keep protecting people who don't protect you.””
I looked down.
“I know.””
Tasha reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Come home with me after school.””
“I can't. I have to go to the lawyer's office tomorrow, and I need to find out what's happening with my dress.””
“Forget the dress for one second.””
“I can't.””
She studied me.
“Then at least promise you'll call me if things get worse.””
“I promise.””
That afternoon, I went to Mrs. Alvarez's shop.
She was pinning a wedding gown when I walked in.
The moment she saw my face, she dropped the pins.
“Nia!””
She rushed toward me.
“What happened?””
I told her.
Every detail.
The slap.
The dress.
The way Vanessa had stood over me.
Mrs. Alvarez's expression became frighteningly still.
“Did your father know?””
“He knows about the dress. Not the slap.””
“And why haven't you told him?””
I gave a bitter laugh.
“Because he would probably ask me what I did to provoke her.””
Mrs. Alvarez took my hands.
“Listen to me carefully. Nobody has the right to hit you. Not your stepmother.
Not your father. Nobody.””
I nodded.
“I'm seventeen.””
“Exactly. You're still a child, and you deserve to be safe.””
She walked to the back office and returned with a small ice pack.
“Put this against your cheek.””
I did.
Then she looked at me.
“Now tell me something. Do you remember the measurements we took for your gown?””
“Yes.””
“Good. Because we're going to rebuild it.””
I looked at her.
“With what fabric?””
She opened a cabinet.
Inside were several rolls of beautiful ivory satin, soft tulle, and delicate embroidered lace.
“I have leftover material from a bridal order. The customer approved me using the excess.””
“Mrs. Alvarez, I can't afford that.””
She waved her hand.
“You're not buying it. Consider it a gift.””
I shook my head.
“I don't want charity.””
“Then don't call it charity. Call it an investment in a young designer who has better hands than half the people charging thousands for custom gowns.””
I laughed despite myself.
She smiled.
“There's my girl.””
For the next two hours, we discussed the design.
The damaged dress had taught me something.
I didn't need to reproduce the original gown exactly.
I could make something better.
We redesigned the bodice, added a delicate line of pearl embroidery, and created a removable overskirt that would move beautifully when I walked.
At one point, Mrs. Alvarez stepped back from the sketch.
“Your mother would have loved this.””
I looked at the drawing.
“I hope so.””
“She would have been proud of you even if you wore a paper bag.””
I smiled.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Brianna.
It was a photograph.
She was standing in front of a mirror, wearing my unfinished gown.
The blue stains had been cut away from the skirt, and the remaining satin had been altered into a fitted dress.
Underneath the photograph, she had written:
Thanks for the free designer outfit. I knew it would look better on me.
A second message arrived.
Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone knows you made it. It'll be hilarious.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Mrs. Alvarez noticed.
“What is it?””
I showed her.
She read the messages without speaking.
Then she handed the phone back.
“Save those.””
“I already have.””
“Good.””
She returned to the sewing machine.
“People who are determined to humiliate you often forget that they're documenting their own behavior.””
I looked at the photograph again.
Brianna had made one mistake.
She had assumed that because she was wearing my creation, she owned the story behind it.
But the design was mine.
The original sketches were mine.
The photographs of every stage were mine.
And I had something else.
A dated receipt for every piece of fabric.
I saved Brianna's messages.
Then I returned to the sewing table.
For the first time since the attack, I felt calm.
The following afternoon, I arrived at Harrison, Bell and Associates.
The office was on the fourth floor of an old brick building downtown.
Daniel Harrison was waiting near the reception desk.
He was in his early sixties, with silver hair and a navy suit.
When he saw me, he immediately stood.
“Nia Carter?””
“Yes.””
He shook my hand.
“You have your mother's eyes.””
I felt my throat tighten.
He led me into a private office.
On the desk were several folders.
He opened one.
“Your mother established a trust for you before she died. It was intended to provide for your education and future career.””
I looked at the documents.
“Is the money still there?””
Mr. Harrison removed his glasses.
“That is precisely what we need to establish.””
He turned the folder toward me.
There were several transactions listed.
One withdrawal had been made five months after my mother's death.
Another had been made nine months later.
And a third had been authorized shortly after my father's marriage to Vanessa.
I stared at the amounts.
$18,000.
$12,500.
$9,700.
“Who took the money?””
Mr. Harrison tapped a document.
“Your father was the appointed custodian. However, the withdrawals were made through an account connected to another individual.””
I looked at him.
“Who?””
He turned another page.
The name appeared beneath a series of signatures.
Vanessa Carter.
My stepmother.
I stopped breathing.
Mr. Harrison watched me carefully.
“There's something else, Nia.””
He pulled out a second folder.
“This account was not the only thing your mother left you.””
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph of a small commercial building.
A sewing studio.
A sign above the entrance read:
ELENA CARTER DESIGNS.
I stared at it.
My mother's old business.
“Your mother owned this property outright,” Mr. Harrison explained.
“She left it in a separate arrangement for your benefit.””
I looked at him.
“Where is it?””
He slid a document across the desk.
“Still in your name. And according to the latest records, someone has been collecting rent from the tenants for the last several years.””
I looked at the signature on the rental authorization.
My father's.
Then Mr. Harrison pointed to a second signature.
Vanessa's.
My hands began to shake.
“Why are they collecting money from my property?””
Mr. Harrison closed the folder.
“That, Nia, is what we're going to investigate.””
May you like
Then he asked a question that made my stomach drop.
“Has your father ever told you that your mother left him anything?””
