Chapter 4: Words From the Past
It was past midnight when they reached Victor’s modest, timber-framed house near the edge of the pine forest, miles away from the city's high-rises. After tucking Lily into bed with her favorite stuffed bear, Victor sat down at the heavy wooden dining table.
Single lamp lit the room. With trembling hands, he broke the seal of the large white envelope. Inside were dozens of smaller, neatly folded letters written on thin stationary paper, dated chronologically over two years.
He opened the first letter, dated six years ago:
Dearest Victor,
If you are reading this, it means you finally found a way past the wall your mother built between us. I am writing this from a small cabin near the mountains. Your mother came to our apartment the day after you left for the overseas project. She showed me legal papers, threats that would put you in prison for financial fraud using documents she forged.
She told me that if I stayed, she would destroy your life before you even had a chance to start. I couldn't let her do that to you, Victor. You have such a good, fiercely protective heart.
May you like
I am pregnant. I found out yesterday. I know you think I left because I didn't love you, but every breath I take is for you and our baby. Please don't search for me in anger. Search for me when you are free...
Victor pulled the letter close to his face, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of lavender and paper. Silent tears spilled down his cheeks, soaking into his dark beard. The anger that had fueled him for six years melted away, leaving behind a deep, aching grief—and a profound clarity.
