Chapter 9 - THE LAST THING RICHARD ASKED FOR
Richard wrote from prison.
I ignored the first letter.
Then the second.
Then the third.
The fourth said:
I am ill.
I opened it.
He had prostate cancer.
Treatable.
Not immediately life-threatening.
Still frightening.
He asked to see me.
For weeks, I said no.
Then one day, I changed my mind.
Not for him.
For myself.
The prison visiting room smelled like disinfectant and coffee.
Richard looked older.
Smaller.
For the first time, no estate.
No office.
No mahogany desk.
Just a man in institutional clothes.
“Mariana.”
I sat.
“Richard.”
Not Dad.
He noticed.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“For what?”
He looked down.
“Everything.”
“No.”
His face lifted.
“That isn’t enough.”
He nodded slowly.
So I asked.
“Did you love my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever intend to leave Beatrice?”
“No.”
Elena had been right.
“Why take me?”
His face twisted.
“I panicked.”
“Try again.”
He breathed.
“When Elena became unstable after birth, I thought you would be safer with us.”
“For six weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I became afraid she would expose the affair.”
“So you kept me.”
“Yes.”
“Why make me work?”
He started crying.
This time I did not rescue him.
“Why?”
“Beatrice resented you.”
“I know.”
“And I…”
He struggled.
“I couldn’t look at you without thinking about what I had done.”
There it was.
“So you avoided me.”
“Yes.”
“And let her punish me.”
“Yes.”
“And convinced yourself I owed you.”
“Yes.”
My chest hurt.
Twenty-seven years reduced to cowardice.
Not a grand conspiracy at first.
Cowardice.
Then money made the lie profitable.
The trust.
The shares.
Sterling Development.
“What about Elena’s money?”
He closed his eyes.
“At first, I told myself I was preserving it.”
“And later?”
“I needed it.”
There.
Honest.
Finally.
“Did you have anything to do with the car running her off the road?”
“No.”
I watched his face.
I believed him.
Maybe.
I would never know completely.
He asked:
“Can you forgive me?”
I thought of the laundry room.
Black blouse.
Family photos.
Beatrice’s voice.
Grateful.
Always grateful.
“No.”
His face fell.
“Maybe someday.”
He nodded.
“That’s more than I deserve.”
Probably.
Then he said:
“I’m proud of you.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
He looked confused.
“You don’t get to say that like you helped build this version of me.”
He flinched.
I stood.
“I built her after I left.”
Then I walked out.
I did not feel triumphant.
I felt lighter.
May you like
That was better.
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