Chapter 18 - ELEANOR'S LETTER
The letter arrived three months later.
No return address was necessary.
I recognized Eleanor’s handwriting.
For several days, I left it unopened.
Then curiosity won.
Vivienne,
I have rewritten this letter twelve times.
Every version began with an explanation.
My childhood.
My marriage.
The pressure I felt.
My gambling.
My fear of losing everything.
I finally realized that every explanation was another attempt to move responsibility away from myself.
So this version has none.
I stole.
I lied.
I humiliated you.
I encouraged my daughter to despise you.
I taught my son that keeping me happy was more important than protecting his wife.
When I tore your dress, I believed I was exposing you.
Instead, I exposed myself.
I have spent a long time being angry that your father arrived that night.
I told myself that if Marcus Vale had not interfered, our family could have handled everything privately.
Now I understand that “privately” meant I could have controlled the story.
You stopped me from controlling it.
I still do not know whether I am grateful.
But I know you were right.
I do not expect forgiveness.
Eleanor.
I read the letter twice.
Then I called Dominic.
“Your mother wrote to me.”
He was silent for a moment.
“She wrote to me too.”
“What did she say?”
“That she’s sorry.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe she is beginning to understand.”
That was exactly how I felt.
“Are you going to visit her?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“Eventually.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty for waiting.”
“I’m learning that.”
Lily shouted something in the background.
Dominic laughed.
“She’s demanding pancakes.”
“It’s four in the afternoon.”
“She doesn’t respect traditional meal structures.”
“That sounds inherited.”
“From you.”
“Goodbye, Dominic.”
He laughed.
After the call, I placed Eleanor’s letter in a drawer.
I did not write back immediately.
Forgiveness had become a complicated word for me.
People often treated it like a door.
Either open or closed.
I had learned it could be a hallway.
You could move through it slowly.
You could stop.
You could continue later.
Three weeks later, I wrote Eleanor one sentence.
I hope the person you become when you leave prison is someone you can live honestly with.
I did not write that I forgave her.
I did not write that I hated her.
I simply sent the truth.
May you like
Sometimes that is enough.
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