“I’ve never seen that.”
“You said Dad gave you the key.”
“He did. But I didn’t know what was inside.”
I lifted the envelope.
The paper was old.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
For my daughter, when she is old enough to understand that adults can love each other and still fail each other badly.
I stared at the sentence until the words blurred.
Ethan quietly walked out of the room.
Richard started to follow.
“Stay,” I said.
He hesitated.
“You’re part of this.”
I opened the envelope.
There were three pages.
The first was addressed to me.
Victoria,
If you are reading this, you found your way to Larksburg.
Perhaps Richard gave you the key. Perhaps someone else did. Perhaps you found it by accident, which would be entirely consistent with this family’s history of poor planning and good luck.
I laughed once.
My father’s voice was there.
Perfectly intact.
I kept reading.
I helped draw these streets before there were houses here. I imagined families walking them long after I was gone.
Richard imagined the same thing.
You may someday hear that Richard Caldwell betrayed me.
That is partly true.
You may also hear that I walked away because I was principled and he was greedy.
That is too simple.
Richard made a choice I could not forgive at the time.
I made pride into a home and lived inside it for years.
Your mother asked me more than once to answer his letters.
I refused.
That was my choice.
I looked up.
