My husband put me out and kept all my assets just to hand them over to his mistress. All I have left is a worn-out debit card my father left me. I thought the balance was zero, but it ended up making the bank manager tremble with fear.

“My father, Tendai—what else do you know about him?”

Mr. Zuberi opened a drawer, pulling out a thick, dusty folder.

“Your father was a priority client long before the term ‘private banking’ existed. He left this—a letter and legal documents. He said, ‘This can only be opened by my daughter, or by us if she has accessed the account.’”

He handed over a yellowed envelope.

Zelica’s hands trembled as she opened it. Inside was a sheet of paper written neatly by hand.

To my baby girl, Zelica.

If you are reading this, it means there are two possibilities. First, Papa is no longer here, and you are ready to start your own life. Second, life hasn’t gone according to your plans.

Papa was a salesman. It’s true. But Papa also knew that this world isn’t always fair to good Black women like you. I saw how they treated your mother.