Chapter 9 - The Letter
In May of my seventy-second year, I sat in the glass-enclosed sunroom of the Potomac brownstone, watching the spring roses bloom in the backyard garden.
The house was quiet, peaceful, filled with the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun.
Arthur Vance walked into the sunroom carrying a silver tray with a pot of Earl Grey tea and a single white envelope.
“Good afternoon, Loretta,” Arthur said, placing the tray on the small wrought-iron table beside my armchair.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I smiled. “How are the quarterly reports looking?”
“Excellent. The new digital publishing division is up eighteen percent,” Arthur replied. He paused, looking down at the white envelope on the tray. “There is something else.”
I looked at the envelope. It bore no corporate seal, no legal letterhead. It was a simple, inexpensive paper envelope addressed to me in neat, careful handwriting.
“It came from Baltimore,” Arthur said quietly. “It arrived with this month’s restitution money order.”
I picked up the envelope. My hand, now showing the gentle spots of seventy-two years, opened the seal softly.
Inside was a single sheet of lined notebook paper:
Dear Grandma,
I am writing this letter not to ask for forgiveness, because I know I have done things that no apology can ever undo. I am not writing to ask for money, or for help with my probation, or to ask to return to your life.
I am writing simply because I read Mom’s old diaries last night.
For thirty years, I believed that love was something I was owed. I believed that your success belonged to me simply because I existed. I was so blinded by my own privilege that I could not see the sweat, the blood, and the fierce devotion it took for you to build our family from nothing.
When I struck you at your birthday dinner, I proved that I was a monster. You were right to strip everything away from me. If you had not, I would have died without ever understanding what it means to be a human being.
I work at a printing press now in Baltimore. It is hard work, but every time my hands get covered in ink, I think of you working late at night when I was a little girl. For the first time in my life, I am earning my own bread.
I do not expect an answer to this letter. I only pray that your lip healed well, that your heart is at peace, and that Mom can look down from wherever she is and see that I am finally trying to learn how to be brave.
With all the respect I should have given you long ago, Cassandra.
I finished reading the letter.
A single tear rolled slowly down my cheek, dropping onto the lined paper, blurring the ink on her name.
Arthur stood beside my chair, watching me quietly. “Loretta? Would you like me to file it away?”
May you like
I folded the paper gently, placed it back into the envelope, and pressed it against my heart.
“No, Arthur,” I said softly, looking out at the blooming roses in the garden. “Call Detective Marcus. Have him prepare the car. We are going to Baltimore.”
