Chapter 8: The Letters My Mother Never Sent
Nathan brought out a box from his bedroom.
It was old.
Worn.
Covered in dust.
“This is everything she left me.””
I stared at it.
“Your mother wanted you to have these someday.””
My fingers trembled as I opened the box.
Inside were dozens of letters.
Each one had a date.
Each one had my name.
Emily.
My mother wrote to me every year.
Even when I didn’t know she existed.
I picked up the first letter.
The date was my thirteenth birthday.
A year after she died.
I couldn’t breathe.
“She was gone.””
Nathan nodded.
“She knew she might not be there to give them to you.””
I opened the letter.
The handwriting was slightly uneven.
But it was hers.
*My sweet Emily,*
*Today you turn thirteen. I wonder if you still hate vegetables. I wonder if you still sing when you think nobody is listening. I wonder if you still hold onto the little things that make you happy.*
My vision blurred.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
“She remembered everything.””
Nathan nodded.
“She never stopped loving you.””
I kept reading.
*I hope you never believe that losing me means losing love. Love doesn’t disappear when someone leaves. It stays in the people we touched.*
I cried quietly.
Not the kind of crying that comes from sadness alone.
The kind that comes from finally receiving something you waited years for.
Nathan and I spent hours talking.
About our mother.
About our childhoods.
About our father.
And slowly, I realized something.
Nathan wasn’t angry at me.
He was angry at the years stolen from us.
“I always thought you had the perfect life,” he admitted.
I laughed sadly.
“And I thought you had the life I should have known about.””
He looked at me.
“Guess neither of us knew the truth.””
“No.””
I closed the letter.
“But now we do.””
When I returned home, my father was waiting outside my apartment.
I knew immediately why.
Someone had told him.
Maybe Claire.
Maybe someone else.
He looked exhausted.
Older.
For the first time, he looked like a man instead of a powerful businessman.
“Emily.””
I stopped walking.
“What do you want?””
His eyes moved toward the folder in my hand.
“You found Nathan.””
Not a question.
A statement.
“Yes.””
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, I saw regret.
Real regret.
“Does he hate me?””
I almost answered immediately.
But then I stopped.
Because that wasn’t the right question.
“You’re asking the wrong thing.””
He looked at me.
“The question isn’t whether he hates you.””
I stepped closer.
“The question is why you made him spend his whole life without his family.””
His face tightened.
“I was trying to protect everyone.””
I shook my head.
“You always say that.””
“Because it’s true.””
“No.””
My voice became stronger.
“You say it because it makes you feel like the hero.””
Silence.
“You weren’t protecting us.””
I held up the letters.
“You were protecting yourself.””
His eyes moved to the box.
“Your mother wanted things complicated.””
“My mother wanted honesty.””
“She didn’t understand the consequences.””
I stared at him.
“You don’t get to use her anymore.””
That sentence destroyed him.
Because it was true.
For years, my father had hidden behind the idea of my mother.
Claiming he was honoring her.
Protecting her memory.
But the truth was simpler.
He was protecting his own image.
That night, I received a message from Daniel.
*“Are you aware your father’s company is preparing to announce a major restructuring?””*
I frowned.
I replied:
*“No. Why?””*
His response came quickly.
*“Because they are planning to use your name.””*
I stared at the screen.
What?
A second message appeared.
*“Your father wants the public to believe you support him.””*
My heart sank.
Even now.
May you like
Even after everything.
He was still trying to control the story.
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