“He wrote a letter for you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“Do you want it?”
I thought.
Not whether Alessandro would want me to read it.
Not whether Victoria.
Not whether Mia someday.
Me.
“Yes.”
The letter arrived that afternoon.
Elena,
I don’t know what I’m allowed to apologize for without making the apology sound like a request.
So I’ll keep it simple.
I left.
You were pregnant.
That was wrong.
I was ashamed of losing the job, scared of becoming like my father, and convinced you would be better without another person to support.
Those were explanations I used to make cowardice sound thoughtful.
You deserved better.
Mia did too.
I have been sober for fourteen months.
I have steady work.
I am in counseling.
None of that means you owe me access to either of you.
I want to complete the paternity process because the
settlement belongs to Mia if I am her father.
I also want her to know I existed when she is old enough.
If the answer is no, I will accept legal boundaries.
If the answer is maybe someday, I will wait.
If the answer is yes to a letter and nothing else, I will write one.
I am sorry.
David.
I read it three times.
Then cried.
Not because I wanted him back.
I didn’t.
Because for the first time, David sounded like someone who understood what he had done without asking me to make him feel better about it.
That mattered.
I called my attorney.
“I’ll do the test.”
“Anything else?”
“One letter.”
“For Mia?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“To keep for later.”
“And contact?”
“Through counsel only.”
“Good.”
I hung up.
Then I sat beside Mia on the living-room floor.
She was fourteen months old now.
Walking badly.
Falling
cheerfully.
She handed me a plastic block.
I took it.
“Your dad found us.”
She had no idea what that meant.
Good.
She did not need to.
Not yet.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
This time Alessandro.
The operations team needs approval on the lobby vendor change. Why are there six spreadsheets?
I laughed.
Work.
Ordinary.
I replied:
Because people keep asking for seven versions of the same answer.
