Chapter 13 - THE LETTERS FROM PRISON
David began writing letters.
The first arrived nine months after sentencing.
I didn't open it.
The second came three months later.
I put it in a drawer.
Then another.
And another.
He never asked me to visit.
Never asked for forgiveness.
Never asked for money.
Every envelope simply said:
For Maya, if she ever wants it.
Two years passed.
One evening, I finally opened the first letter.
Maya,
I have rewritten this letter twenty times because every version sounds like an excuse.
There is no excuse.
I knew Lily was sick.
I knew you were frightened.
I knew I should come home.
And I chose myself.
I stopped reading.
An hour later, I continued.
David described the yacht.
Not the luxury.
The moment he listened to Dr. Patel's voicemail.
He had been standing alone on the upper deck.
For several minutes, he considered leaving.
Then Thomas called.
A transfer was in progress.
If David returned suddenly, Thomas feared questions.
So Thomas told him Lily would be fine.
David wanted to believe him.
And because believing him was easier, he did.
That decision haunted him.
The second letter was about Lily.
Her first steps.
Her obsession with pancakes.
The time she painted David's $4,000 briefcase with purple nail polish.
The third letter contained only one paragraph.
I used to think punishment meant prison.
It doesn't.
Prison is walls.
Punishment is waking up every morning knowing there was one day your daughter needed you more than she ever had before, and you deliberately chose not to be there.
I folded the letter.
For a long time, I sat beside my window.
Then I cried.
Not because I wanted David back.
I didn't.
Not because I forgave him.
I wasn't sure I ever would.
I cried because somewhere beneath all the fraud, betrayal, arrogance, and cowardice had once been the man I married.
And that man had destroyed himself.
Three years after Lily died, I visited David.
He looked older.
Gray touched his hair.
He smiled when he saw me.
Not happily.
Gratefully.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We sat across from each other.
No glass this time.
“Foundation's doing well,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Newspapers.”
I nodded.
“We've helped over four hundred families.”
David smiled.
“Lily would like that.”
“Yes.”
Silence settled between us.
Then he asked the question he'd waited three years to ask.
“Do you forgive me?”
I looked at him.
“I don't know.”
He nodded slowly.
“That's fair.”
“But I don't hate you anymore.”
His eyes filled.
“That might be more than I deserve.”
“This isn't about what you deserve.”
I stood.
“It's about what I need.”
He nodded.
Before I left, David spoke again.
“Maya?”
I turned.
“Thank you for telling Lily I was coming.”
My throat tightened.
“She deserved hope.”
“Yes.”
He wiped his eyes.
“She deserved better than me.”
May you like
I didn't answer.
Because sometimes truth doesn't need repetition.
