Chapter 9 - The Letters in the Dust
Six months later.
A heavy rainstorm rolled over the city, drumming a gentle, rhythmic pattern against the nursery windows.
Lily was nine months old now, sitting on a soft foam mat in the center of the living room, giggling loudly as she reached for a wooden rattle Ethan was shaking in front of her. She was healthy, vibrant, and growing faster than we could keep up with, her dark hair curling softly around her ears.
The doorbell rang.
Ethan stood up, kissing the top of Lily's head before going to open the front door.
A mail carrier stood on the porch, holding a yellow manila envelope that required a signature.
"Mr. Vance?" the carrier asked. "Certified mail from the State Department of Corrections."
Ethan signed the pad, took the envelope, and walked back into the living room, his face darkening slightly as he looked at the return address.
"What is it?" I asked, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of fresh fruit.
"A letter from prison," Ethan said, sliding his thumb under the flap and pulling out three hand-written pages on cheap lined paper. "It's from Eleanor."
I sat down on the sofa, watching Ethan as he skimmed the lines.
"What does she want?" I asked, my voice completely devoid of anxiety or fear—only a quiet, detached curiosity.
"She's asking for forgiveness," Ethan sneered softly, reading through the frantic, messy handwriting. "She claims she was under Richard's emotional control. She says Brooke's lawyers misled her. She wants you to bring Lily to the prison visiting room so she can see her granddaughter before her parole hearing next year."
I looked down at Lily, who had successfully grabbed her rattle and was banging it against the floor with a triumphant squeal.
I took the letter from Ethan's hand.
Without reading a single line of my mother's desperate, manipulative excuses, I folded the pages in half, tore them down the middle, and tossed the scraps into the small wastebasket beside the desk.
"Claire?" Ethan looked at me, surprised.
May you like
"She chose her legacy six months ago, Ethan," I said, leaning over to pick Lily up into my arms, pressing a soft kiss against her soft, warm cheek. "My daughter doesn't have grandmothers who kick pregnant women. Her family is right here in this room."
Ethan smiled—a deep, genuine smile that lit up his whole face—and sat down beside us on the sofa, pulling both of us into his arms.
