Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Letter to Marcus
Victoria had been thinking about writing to Marcus Webb's family for months.
She had written letters before—dozens of them, over the twelve years she had spent in prison. Apologies. Explanations. Pleas for forgiveness. She had sent them all, and she had received no replies. She had not expected any. She had not deserved any.
But this letter was different.
This letter would tell the truth.
Lina found Victoria in the garden, a blank notebook in her lap, a pen in her hand. She had been sitting there for hours, staring at the page.
"Have you written anything?" Lina asked, sitting beside her.
Victoria shook her head. "I don't know how to start."
"Start at the beginning."
"The beginning was thirty years ago. That's too long."
"Then start now."
Victoria looked at the blank page.
She began to write.
---
Dear Denise,
I don't expect you to read this. I don't expect you to care. But I need to write it anyway, because I've spent twelve years believing I killed your husband, and now I know the truth.
Marcus stepped in front of my car.
I didn't know that then. I didn't know it for twelve years. All I knew was that I was drunk and careless and a man was dead because of me.
I'm not writing to ask for forgiveness. I'm not writing to ask for understanding. I'm writing to tell you that I'm sorry. For the accident. For the years of silence. For the pain I caused your family.
I'm also writing to tell you that I've changed.
I've been sober for over a year. I go to meetings every day. I have a therapist. I have a sponsor. I have a family that loves me, even though I don't deserve it.
I'm not the woman I was. I'm not the woman who got behind the wheel of a car after drinking. I'm not the woman who ran a red light and destroyed a family.
I'm someone new.
I don't know if that matters to you. I don't know if anything I say can ever matter to you. But I needed to say it anyway.
I'm sorry, Denise. I'm sorry for all of it.
—Victoria Blackwood
---
Lina read the letter over Victoria's shoulder.
"It's good," she said.
"It's not enough."
"It's a start."
Victoria folded the letter and put it in an envelope. She wrote Denise Webb's address on the front—the same address she had used for twelve years, the same address that had never received a reply.
"I'm going to mail it," Victoria said. "Today."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Victoria shook her head. "This is something I need to do alone."
Lina nodded.
She watched Victoria walk to the mailbox, watched her drop the letter inside, watched her stand there for a long moment, her hand on the box.
Then Victoria walked back to the garden, sat down beside Lina, and burst into tears.
Lina held her.
She did not say anything.
There was nothing to say.
---
The reply came two weeks later.
Lina found the envelope in the mailbox, addressed to Victoria in handwriting she did not recognize. She carried it inside and handed it to Victoria, who was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea.
Victoria stared at the envelope.
"Open it," Lina said.
Victoria opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds. The handwriting was shaky, as if the writer had been crying.
Victoria,
I've known the truth for years. I found Marcus's letter in his desk, a week after the funeral. I knew he had stepped in front of your car. I knew he had chosen to die.
I didn't tell anyone because I was ashamed. Ashamed of him. Ashamed of myself. Ashamed of the family we had become.
I've spent twelve years hating you because it was easier than hating him. Easier than hating myself.
I'm tired of hating.
I don't forgive you. I don't think I ever will. But I'm not angry anymore. I'm just sad.
Sad for the husband I lost. Sad for the daughters who grew up without a father. Sad for the life we could have had.
Thank you for writing. Thank you for telling the truth.
—Denise
Victoria read the letter twice.
Then she set it down.
"She knew," Victoria said. "All along, she knew."
"Yes," Lina said.
"She chose to hate me instead."
"Yes."
Victoria was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't blame her," she said finally. "If I were her, I would have done the same."
Lina took her hand.
"You're not her," she said. "And she's not you."
Victoria nodded slowly.
She folded the letter and put it in her pocket.
"I'm going to keep it," she said. "To remind myself."
"Remind yourself of what?"
"That forgiveness is complicated. That healing takes time. That some wounds never fully close."
Lina squeezed her hand.
"That's wisdom," she said. "The kind you can't teach."
Victoria almost smiled.
"The kind you have to earn," she said.
---
The Phone Call
A week later, Victoria's phone rang.
The caller ID showed a number she did not recognize.
She almost didn't answer.
But something made her pick up.
"Hello?"
"Victoria? This is Denise Webb."
Victoria's heart stopped.
"Denise," she said. "I didn't expect—"
"I know. I'm sorry to call out of the blue. I just... I couldn't stop thinking about your letter."
Victoria sat down on the couch, her legs weak.
"What about it?" she asked.
"About the woman you've become. The woman who got sober. The woman who told the truth."
Victoria was silent.
"I've been seeing a therapist," Denise continued. "For the first time in twelve years. She asked me what I wanted. What I really wanted."
"And what do you really want?"
Denise was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I want to stop being angry. I want to stop being sad. I want to live the rest of my life without carrying this weight."
Victoria's eyes filled with tears.
"I know that feeling," she said. "I've been carrying weight for twelve years too."
"I know."
They were both quiet.
Then Denise said, "I'm not ready to forgive you. I don't know if I'll ever be ready. But I'm ready to stop hating you."
Victoria nodded, even though Denise could not see her.
"That's enough," Victoria said. "That's more than enough."
They talked for an hour.
About Marcus. About their daughters. About the years of grief and guilt and regret.
When they hung up, Victoria sat in the darkness, her phone in her hand, and cried.
Not sad tears.
Not happy tears.
Just tears.
---
The Meeting
Denise Webb came to the city three weeks later.
She and Victoria met at a small café, neutral ground, neither of them sure what to expect.
Lina waited in the car, giving them privacy.
She watched through the window as the two women sat across from each other, tentative and awkward. She watched them talk. She watched them cry. She watched them reach across the table and hold hands.
She watched them begin to heal.
It was not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But it was a start.
---
That Night
Victoria came home to the penthouse with red eyes and a small smile.
"How did it go?" Lina asked.
"It was hard," Victoria said. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done."
"But you did it."
"I did it."
Lina hugged her.
"I'm proud of you," Lina said.
Victoria hugged her back.
"I'm proud of me too," she said.
They stood in the kitchen, holding each other, while the city hummed outside the window.
And somewhere, in a small apartment across town, Denise Webb was sitting in the darkness, holding her husband's letter, beginning to let go.
---
End of Chapter Twenty-Nine