CHAPTER 10: THE LAST LETTER
A month before Lily’s university midterms, a thick white envelope arrived at the penthouse by certified mail. It bore the crest of a private legal firm in downtown Chicago.
It was from Victoria.
She was serving her court-mandated community supervision hours and undergoing mandatory psychological evaluation. Her lawyer had attached a handwritten letter, claiming Victoria was "seeking closure and spiritual reconciliation."
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, holding the letter. My thumb hovered over the seal. Part of me wanted to tear it into pieces and burn it in the fireplace.
Lily walked into the living room, carrying her laptop. She saw the envelope in my hand and recognized the handwriting immediately.
She didn't flinch. She didn't step back.
"Is that from her?" Lily asked calmly.
"Yes," I replied. "I can return it to her lawyer unopened. You never have to see a single word of it."
May you like
Lily walked over and stood beside me, looking out at the rain washing over the glass.
"Read it to me, Dad," she said softly. "I want to hear what she has to say when she isn't allowed to yell."
