The attorney, Ms. Alvarez, found a memorandum in my father's file. It listed the envelopes as personal gifts and named Mother as temporary keeper until each marked date. She had no discretion to withhold them beyond those dates. Noah's first two were already overdue. The workshop key was also mine, left with a request that I decide whether to keep, sell, or share the tools. Mother had described the locked room as her responsibility because I had never asked to read the file. My reluctance had given her story years to harden.

Ms. Alvarez offered to send a formal demand. I asked for one family meeting first, with her available by telephone. Ben brought the children but waited in the car. At Mother's house, Tess sat beside Noah rather than between him and anything fragile. I read the memorandum aloud. Mother said Dad had written it while medicated. I said the witnesses and attorney disagreed. She cried that I was turning his memory into paperwork. I answered that she had turned it into permission to exclude my son.

Mother finally opened the cabinet. The blue envelopes stood in a neat row, untouched, beside five remaining white ones. She admitted Noah reminded her of Dad: the relentless questions, the need to step outside noisy rooms, the habit of lining up screws before a repair. Every visit brought back the weeks of caring for him, and she had begun treating resemblance as a threat. I could understand grief without offering Noah to absorb it. I collected both children's envelopes and the workshop key. Mother asked whether this meant she would never see us. I kept my voice level even when my hands shook. I said it meant seeing us required honesty, an apology, and a visit built for everyone rather than only for her.