Page 135 of Forever, Maybe
Daniel exhaled sharply. “Just what?”
“I found a letter stuffed in with your 2012 tax returns.”
“A letter?” Relief flooded him, loosening the knot in his spine.
“Yes. A personal letter. Dated a few weeks ago.” A beat. “It’s from your wife.”
Daniel stopped walking. “From Nell?”
Martin made a sound of confirmation. “Did you mean to put it there?”
Daniel shook his head automatically before remembering Martin couldn’t see him. “No. I never saw that letter.”
Martin harrumphed again. “Look, the contents are quite personal. I didn’t finish reading once I realised what it was. But you ought to have it. If you like, I can have it couriered to you.”
And charge me a fortune for it too.
“No, thank you. Just leave it at reception. I’ll pick it up.”
McKinlay, Hodgson & Brown’s offices were on West Regent Street. Daniel took the quick route, cutting through George Square, crossing Buchanan Street, then trudging up the hill. The most expensive firms sat near the top, their townhouses converted into sleek, glass-doored empires of law. Hodgson’s firm occupied two floors.
Inside, the reception area reeked of wealth—squishy red velvet armchairs, a gleaming hardwood coffee table fanned with broadsheet newspapers and glossy, upmarket magazines.
The receptionist greeted him with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. His dishevelled appearance suggested he belonged in a firm specialising in criminal law, not family, tax or estate planning.
“How may I help you?”
Daniel leaned against the desk, still catching his breath from the climb. The woman, her sleek bun and pristine makeup unshaken by his presence, drew back slightly.
“Uh… letter,” he managed between breaths. “For me. Daniel Murray. Mr Hodgson said he’d leave it.”
She lifted a brown envelope, pinching the corner between finger and thumb as though it carried some communicable disease.
Daniel snatched it and strode out without waiting for further pleasantries, throwing a quick “thanks” over his shoulder.
Out on the street, he ripped it open. Even before unfolding the paper, he recognised Nell’s handwriting—the loops and slants he could have picked out anywhere. The paper felt thick, luxurious under his fingers, a far cry from the sandwich bags and notepads he usually scribbled on.
Black ink on cream stationery. Elegant. Deliberate.
The date at the top made his breath hitch. August 15th.
Five weeks ago.
Before Nell found out about Ryan.
He pictured Nell at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, pen clenched tightly in her fingers. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she would pause now and then, lifting her gaze as if searching for the right words in the air above her. He could see it—the care, the deliberation, the love.
The ink on the page felt heavy.
Dear Danny,
I know you don’t want to see me or talk to me, but I need to explain myself, and this is the only way I can think of. I hope you’ll read this to the end.
First of all—I love you.I always have. Throughout our marriage, I have admired you, loved you, and valued you. That’s not to say there haven’t been difficulties, but most of them were things we muddled through, like every couple.
I don’t know where to start, so I’ll begin with the story I never told you.
You always knew I didn’t want children. You pushed me on it back in 2003, and like the coward I am, I didn’t tell you the real reason.
