For a moment, I considered throwing it away.
Then I opened it.
The letter was three pages long.
Most of it concerned financial hardship, public embarrassment, and the sacrifices she believed she had made for our family.
She insisted David had turned everyone against her.
She described Chloe’s independence as betrayal.
She complained that selling the estate was humiliating.
Only near the end did she mention Leo.
“I hope the child has recovered from his illness.”
I stared at that sentence.
The child.
Not my grandson.
Not Leo.
Not the little boy whose photographs she had proudly displayed before wealthy strangers.
Just the child.
I folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope.
For years, I would have written a careful reply, apologizing for her pain and begging for another chance.
This time, I didn’t answer.
I wasn’t trying to punish her.
I had simply stopped volunteering to be hurt.
