Page 95 of Letters From Victor

“It’s not what you think,” I said, reading further.

“What do you mean?”

I exhaled slowly. “This isn’t a legal document. It’s a personal note from Agatha.”

Barbara’s hand went to her mouth. “From Mother? But how…”

“To be delivered upon her death,” I said, my eyes tracing the precise, practiced handwriting.

Barbara took a step back and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “What does it say?”

I scanned down the letter, my eyes moving faster than my mind could process. A knot coiled in my stomach as I reached the bottom. I set the letter in front of Barbara, but she kept her eyes fixed on me.

“Read it,” she said, her voice brittle. “I don’t care how bad it is—I just can’t.”

“Barbara, maybe you should?—“

“No.” She shook her head, sharp and final. “Just tell me. Please.”

I took a deep breath and picked up the letter, the expensive paper rustling in my hands. The words swam before me, and for a moment, I hoped they would dissolve like sugar in hot tea and take their meaning with them. I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly, bracing myself.

“Dear Barbara,” I read, trying to capture the cold formality of Agatha’s voice. “If you are reading this, then you know I have left this world behind. There are things I wished to say to you while I was still alive, but time and circumstance never deemed it appropriate.”

I glanced at Barbara. Her face was a mask, unreadable.

“I know you always believed that I did not understand you—that I was unsupportive and unfeeling. The truth is, I did understand, perhaps more than you ever realized. I had the same desires and ambitions when I was your age.”

I checked Barbara’s face for any sign of emotion—anger, sorrow, relief—but she remained a statue, her eyes unblinking and distant.

“None of this is easy for me to admit,” I continued to read, “but you need to know the truth. Unfortunately, I was never able to be the warm, nurturing presence that you needed. The kind of motherly love you deserved was something beyond my reach.”

The words hung in the air like lingering smoke. Barbara gripped the edge of the counter so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Still, she gave no other outward reaction to the words I read.

“I am sorry for that, truly. And for all the rest, though I imagine that comes as a small consolation at this late hour.There are certain truths that I promised to take to my grave, and rest assured, I’ve kept those promises. But just because I’m gone does not mean you’re left without answers.”

I shifted my weight, uneasy with what came next.

“Speak to Edith,” I read slowly, each word a deliberate, slow drag of a scalpel. “She can tell you what I never could.” A beat of silence. “Signed, Mother.”

36

BARBARA

Edith’s hands trembled as she read Mother’s letter.

Silence filled the room like a dense fog—the suffocating, blinding fog over the water that swallows up the pier. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. A long breath hitched in her throat. Then with a sudden exhale, she tossed the letter on the coffee table and stalked toward the bar.

She pulled out two lowball glasses and set them on the jade bar top with an echoing clatter. Bourbon glugged generously into the glasses, filling them nearly to the brim.

Edith pressed her lips together as she brought the glasses back to the sofa and wordlessly offered me one. I shook my head, but she set it in front of me anyway.

She picked up her glass and swirled the bourbon, letting its aroma rise to her nose. She took a deep, unsteady breath and sipped—careful at first, then a long swallow. Color drained from her face, leaving her pale as porcelain.

I tapped my fingers against the letter on the coffee table. “It’s not what I expected,” I said. “More honest than I ever thought she’d be.”

Edith stared at the letter as if it were a ghost come to haunt her. “Don’t be naïve, Barbara. You know how Mother was.” Her voice was distant and hollow. “Only honest when it suited her.”

I stared at the sharply creased paper. “She said you have answers. Is it true?”

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