Chapter 14 - Vanessa Sent Sophie One LetterVanessa asked permission to write Sophie.
My first answer was no.
Immediate.
Then Sophie’s therapist asked:
“Do you want never, or not now?”
I hated that question.
“Not now.”
Better.
Vanessa waited.
Six months.
Asked again through counsel.
No gift.
No request for a meeting.
One letter.
I asked Sophie’s therapist to review it first.
Then I read it.
It said:
Sophie, I treated you badly when I was angry about things that were never your responsibility. I used food and your mother’s belongings to scare you. That was wrong. You did not make your mother change her plans for me. I did. You did not take anything from me by being loved. You do not owe me an answer.
I read the sentence twice.
You did not take anything from me by being loved.
That was the truth Vanessa had resisted longest.
I did not give Sophie the letter immediately.
She was seven by then.
Old enough to read.
Not necessarily old enough to carry an adult’s remorse.
Her therapist eventually asked whether she wanted to know if Vanessa had apologized.
Sophie said:
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“Good apology?”
The therapist smiled.
“That’s something you would decide.”
Sophie asked me that night:
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
I gave it to her.
She read slowly.
Stopped at your mother’s belongings.
Her hand closed around the locket.
When she finished, she folded the page.
“Do I have to write back?”
“No.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
She stared at me.
That surprised her.
“I want you to do what feels right when you’re older enough to know what that is.”
“Older enough?”
“My grammar is failing.”
She smiled.
Then put the letter in her desk drawer.
No answer.
That was fine.
We began spending weekends at the mansion again.
Only days.
Not nights.
Sophie used Claire’s study as an art room.
Her paintings gradually covered one wall.
Claire’s portrait stayed.
Sophie added a paper crown to the frame once.
“Why?”
“She looked fancy.”
Good.
The kitchen remained harder.
The first time Sophie asked for cereal there, I nearly cried.
She didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
The dog returned from staying with my sister.
His name was Franklin.
He immediately ran to his bowl.
Sophie watched.
Then laughed.
“He likes it.”
“He’s disgusting.”
Franklin continued eating happily.
Another object returned to its proper meaning.
Then Sophie asked:
“Are we moving back?”
The question caught me.
“Do you want to?”
She shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
“What don’t you like?”
“The stairs.”
“Fair.”
“What do you like?”
“Mommy room.”
I waited.
Then:
“You don’t have to decide.”
She looked relieved.
Neither did I.
I had spent most of my adult life treating decisions as proof of competence.
Buy.
Sell.
Hire.
Fire.
Close.
Expand.
Grief had taught me nothing if I forced Sophie to make a home into another deadline.
So we kept the rental.
Kept the mansion.
For now.
Expensive indecision.
May you like
I could afford it.
More importantly, she could emotionally afford it.
