I took my phone to my desk, intending to put it away, and noticed the letter Helen had given me after our first estate meeting. An envelope in my father’s handwriting, marked For Marcus, when you’re ready.
I’d avoided it for months. His voice was gone from my voicemail because I’d changed phones. His sweater still hung behind my bedroom door. I hadn’t been able to decide which was worse: opening his last letter or leaving it sealed forever.
I opened it.
He didn’t begin with Sophia. He began with an apology.
I should have told you more about the business while I could. I mistook keeping you free of my expectations for keeping you informed. Those are different things.
He wrote about my mother, who died when I was seventeen. About how he had worked longer hours after her funeral because being useful was easier than being sad. About the pride he’d felt when I chose engineering, not because it would make money, but because I’d chosen it for myself.
Then he mentioned Sophia.
I might be wrong about her. I hope I am. I only know what I have seen: you growing smaller when you talk about the future, as if you owe an apology for the life you’ve built. No one should have to spend a marriage auditioning for it.
A little later, he wrote:
When I asked you not to tell her about the estate, I was afraid you would use my money to solve a question the two of you needed to answer yourselves. It wasn’t fair of me to put that burden on you. I’m sorry.
I read that paragraph three times.
My father hadn’t set a trap. He’d made a mistake while trying to protect me, and he’d been honest enough to admit it.
The last lines were worse.
If she stays, build a life together because you want each other. If she goes, let her go. Either way, please don’t spend the rest of your life trying to prove somebody wrong. There are better things to do with the time you have.
I cried harder over that letter than I had at the funeral. Sophia called the following Sunday.
I answered.
“Hi,” she said, surprised.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
“I almost didn’t.”
She exhaled. “Can we get coffee?”
“What do you want, Sophia?”
“I want to say I’m sorry to your face. And I want to know whether there’s any chance we could try again.”
“Does this have anything to do with David?”
“It started when things with David went wrong,” she admitted. “I’m not going to lie about that.”
I appreciated the honesty. I also hated how late it had arrived.
“Thursday,” I said. “Four o’clock. Palmer’s on West Third.”
“Thank you.”
Afterward I called Helen.
“Can I show someone my personal beneficiary statement?” I asked.
“It’s yours to disclose, provided you don’t hand over confidential company materials. Why?”
“Someone I used to know thinks she wants to get back together.”
Helen was quiet.
“Marcus,” she said, “don’t confuse having the right to say something with having a reason to say it.”
“I know.”
I hadn’t decided yet. I wanted Sophia to see what she’d walked away from. I wanted to watch her understand. It was an ugly wish, but pretending it wasn’t there wouldn’t make it go away. Palmer’s was the coffee shop where Sophia and I had planned our wedding over two cinnamon rolls and a notebook.
She was already seated when I arrived, wearing the camel coat she’d bought for our honeymoon. Her hair was shorter. There were tired shadows under her eyes.
She stood when she saw me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
We sat. A barista brought water. Neither of us touched it.
“I practiced what I was going to say,” Sophia began. “On the drive over. It sounded better in my car.”
“You can just say it.”
“I wanted more than we had. I hated admitting that because I knew it made me sound shallow. Emma kept telling me I was settling, and I listened because part of me already thought it.”
She swallowed.
“When she introduced me to David, I knew I shouldn’t be there. I knew why she’d put us next to each other. And I stayed.”
