Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN PATRICK ERASED
Elaine Mercer’s letters became a map through a family history nobody had ever told me.
Connor scanned every page.
Not because he was afraid Patrick would take them.
He said he wanted them protected.
One Sunday afternoon, he found a name repeated in three letters.
Margaret Bell.
Elaine’s younger sister.
I had met Margaret exactly twice.
Once at our wedding.
Once at Elaine’s funeral.
Howard disliked her.
That alone made me curious.
Connor found her online.
She lived two hours away.
He sent her an email.
Her response arrived eleven minutes later.
CALL ME.
Connor called.
Margaret answered crying.
“I wondered when one of you would find those letters.”
Connor put the call on speaker.
I was sitting beside him.
“What do you know about Grandma’s condition?” he asked.
Margaret sighed.
“More than Patrick does.”
My heart tightened.
She told us Elaine had begun experiencing weakness in her late thirties.
For years, doctors called it everything from arthritis to stress.
Eventually, a neurologist suspected a hereditary condition.
Howard refused further testing.
“He said diagnoses were labels,” Margaret explained.
Connor’s mouth tightened.
“Grandma believed she passed it to Dad?”
“She believed there was a possibility.”
“Did Dad have symptoms?”
“No.”
“Then why was he so ashamed?”
Margaret was silent.
“Because Howard was.”
Of course.
Margaret invited us to visit.
We drove there the following Saturday.
Her house was yellow with blue shutters and an aggressively large garden.
She hugged Connor before he reached the porch.
Then she hugged me.
“You look like your mother.”
I blinked.
“You knew my mother?”
Margaret smiled.
“That woman scared Howard half to death.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“She disagreed with him in complete sentences.”
I immediately loved her.
Over lunch, Margaret told us Elaine had tried for years to convince Patrick to tell me the truth about the genetic report.
My stomach tightened.
“He knew she wanted him to?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me herself?”
Margaret looked ashamed.
“Because Howard threatened her.”
“With what?”
“Money. Reputation. Access to Connor.”
My hands went cold.
“He told her if she interfered, he would make sure Patrick stopped bringing Connor around.”
Connor stared at the table.
“Dad would’ve done that?”
Margaret sighed.
“At that point? Maybe.”
The answer hurt.
But then Margaret handed Connor a small cassette recorder.
“This belonged to your grandmother.”
Connor frowned.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“She recorded messages near the end.”
My heart skipped.
“There’s one for Patrick.”
Connor looked at me.
“Should we listen?”
Margaret shook her head.
“No.”
She placed the recorder in Connor’s hand.
“That decision belongs to your father.”
On the drive home, Connor held the recorder in his lap.
He did not speak for almost an hour.
Finally, he said, “I hate that I understand him more now.”
“Your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Understanding someone does not excuse them.”
“I know.”
He looked out the window.
“But it ruins being angry in a simple way.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Patrick had been raised by a man who measured love in obedience.
He had inherited fear.
Then he passed it down.
The line between victim and perpetrator was uncomfortable because sometimes one person was both.
But Connor was right.
Understanding did not erase responsibility.
We went directly to the house.
Patrick was in the garage.
He had been repairing the old wooden workbench.
Connor placed the cassette recorder in front of him.
Patrick froze.
“Where did you get this?”
“Aunt Margaret.”
Patrick’s face hardened.
“You went to see her?”
“Yes.”
“Connor—”
“She says there’s a message for you.”
Patrick stared at the recorder.
“I don’t want it.”
Connor nodded.
“Okay.”
That surprised Patrick.
Connor turned.
Patrick stopped him.
“Wait.”
Connor looked back.
Patrick sat on a stool.
“What did Margaret tell you?”
“The truth.”
Patrick laughed bitterly.
“Which version?”
Connor’s eyes narrowed.
“See, that’s the problem.”
Patrick looked at him.
“You always act like truth is negotiable.”
Patrick’s face fell.
Connor placed the recorder on the workbench.
“I’m leaving it here.”
Then he rolled away.
Patrick did not listen that day.
Or the next.
Three days later, I received a call at 1:12 a.m.
Patrick.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
He was crying.
Not speaking.
Crying.
“Patrick?”
“I listened.”
I sat up.
“To Elaine?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
He struggled to breathe.
“She knew everything.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did she say?”
Patrick’s voice cracked.
“She apologized.”
“For what?”
“For not protecting me from Dad.”
I pressed the phone tighter.
“She said she watched me become like him because I thought that was how men survived.”
I said nothing.
“She told me not to ask Connor to forgive me.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“She said forgiveness is something injured people get to choose.”
Patrick cried harder.
“She said my job was to become someone worth knowing, even if he never came back.”
My throat tightened.
Elaine had been dead seven years and was still parenting her son.
Patrick continued.
“She said you would eventually leave me.”
I stared into the darkness.
“What exactly did she say?”
“If I kept making you smaller so I could feel bigger, eventually you would remember your size.”
I began crying too.
Patrick whispered, “Serena, are you leaving me?”
There it was.
The question we had avoided.
I looked around Maya’s guest room.
My drafting supplies.
My mother’s letter.
A mug Connor bought me that said DESIGNER OF THINGS AND PEOPLE’S PROBLEMS.
I was building a life here.
But that did not answer his question.
“I’m filing for legal separation.”
Patrick went silent.
I closed my eyes.
“I’m not filing for divorce yet.”
He exhaled shakily.
“Does that mean there’s hope?”
“It means I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“And Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“Do not make the next six months about getting me back.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?”
“Fix yourself because you need fixing.”
He flinched audibly.
“Not so I reward you.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
“That’s all I believe right now.”
The separation papers were filed two weeks later.
Patrick did not fight them.
Howard did.
Not legally.
Emotionally.
He called me.
“You’re destroying this family.”
I laughed.
He sounded offended.
“This is not funny.”
“No. It’s familiar.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You trained everyone to believe truth is destruction.”
Howard’s voice became cold.
“Patrick had responsibilities.”
“So did I.”
“You had a comfortable life.”
I looked around my small temporary room.
“Comfort and safety are not the same thing.”
“You’re making Connor hate his father.”
“No.”
I lowered my voice.
“Connor learned that without me.”
Howard hung up.
The next morning, Patrick called.
“Did Dad contact you?”
“Yes.”
“I told him not to.”
“Well, Howard has never seemed particularly interested in what other people want.”
Patrick was silent.
Then he said, “I resigned.”
I sat upright.
“From Mercer Athletic?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I resigned yesterday.”
“Patrick.”
“I’m not asking for applause.”
Good.
“Why?”
“Because Dad told me the only way to fix this was to cut Connor off financially until he apologized.”
My stomach turned.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather lose the company.”
I closed my eyes.
“And?”
“He told me I was no longer his son.”
The sadness in Patrick’s voice surprised me.
Even after everything, Howard could still hurt him.
“I’m sorry.”
Patrick laughed softly.
“That’s the first time you’ve said that and I actually think the apology belongs to me.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Progress.”
“Maybe.”
He paused.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do for work.”
“Figure it out.”
“I expected something nicer.”
“You married the wrong woman.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“I think I finally married the woman I should have seen all along.”
I did not answer.
But after we hung up, I sat quietly for a long time.
Not because I was ready to take Patrick back.
I was not.
But because for the first time, he had lost something to protect Connor instead of asking Connor to lose something to protect him.
That mattered.
Not enough.
May you like
But it mattered.
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