Chapter Eighty-Two: The Surprise Visitor
The knock came on a Sunday afternoon.
Lina was in the kitchen, making cookies with the twins. Flour was everywhere. Sprinkles was begging for scraps. Lily was trying to convince Leo that adding extra chocolate chips was "scientifically necessary." Sunflower was running on her wheel in the living room.
The doorbell rang.
Lina wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the door. She opened it.
A woman stood in the hallway.
She was in her late twenties, with dark hair and tired eyes and a face that looked familiar in a way Lina could not place. She was holding a small gift bag wrapped in silver paper.
"Can I help you?" Lina asked.
The woman's eyes searched Lina's face. "You're Lina Blackwood?"
"Yes. And you are?"
The woman hesitated. Then she said, "My name is Sarah. Sarah Mitchell. I'm Ryan's sister."
Lina's blood went cold.
Ethan appeared behind her, his hand on her lower back, his body tensed for a fight.
"Ryan doesn't have a sister," Ethan said.
"Half-sister," Sarah corrected. "Same father, different mothers. Ryan never mentioned me because he was ashamed. Our father was not a good man. Ryan takes after him."
Lina studied the woman's face. She looked nothing like Ryan—softer, sadder, with none of his sharp edges. But there was something in her eyes that Lina recognized.
Fear.
"Why are you here?" Lina asked.
Sarah held out the gift bag. "I wanted to bring something for the twins. I know it's strange. I know you have no reason to trust me. But I've been following your story for years. I know what my brother did to you. And I wanted to say—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For what it's worth."
Lina did not take the bag.
"You're sorry," she repeated.
"I know it's not enough."
"It's not."
Sarah nodded, as if she had expected this. "There's something else. Something I found after Ryan died. I thought you should have it."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a small envelope. It was worn, creased, as if it had been folded and unfolded many times.
"What is it?" Lina asked.
"A letter. Ryan wrote it before he died. He gave it to our father to mail, but our father died before he could send it. I found it in his things." Sarah held out the envelope. "I don't know what it says. I didn't open it. But I thought—you deserve to know if he was sorry. Or if he wasn't."
Lina stared at the envelope.
Her name was written on the front, in Ryan's handwriting. She recognized it immediately, the same looping letters that had once signed love notes and grocery lists and promises he had never kept.
She should throw it away. She should tell Sarah to leave. She should close the door and forget this ever happened.
But she could not.
Because some part of her—the part that had once loved Ryan, the part that still wondered what she had done wrong—needed to know.
"Thank you," Lina said, taking the envelope. "You can go now."
Sarah nodded. She turned to leave, then paused.
"I'm not like him," she said quietly. "I know you have no reason to believe me. But I'm not like him."
Then she walked away.
Lina closed the door.
---
She did not open the letter that night.
She set it on her nightstand and stared at it while she brushed her teeth, while she changed into her pajamas, while she climbed into bed beside Ethan. The envelope seemed to glow in the darkness, demanding her attention.
"Do you want me to read it first?" Ethan asked.
Lina shook her head. "It's addressed to me."
"I know. But if it's going to hurt you—"
"Then I'll deal with the hurt. I've dealt with worse."
Ethan was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took her hand.
"I'll be right here," he said. "Whatever it says. I'll be right here."
Lina took a deep breath.
She picked up the envelope.
She opened it.
---
Dear Lina,
If you're reading this, I'm dead. I don't know if I'm in hell or heaven or nowhere at all. I don't know if I deserve to be anywhere.
I'm not going to ask you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve that either. But I need you to know something: I did love you. Not the way I should have. Not the way you deserved. But I loved you as much as I was capable of loving anyone.
My father loved my mother the same way. He broke her bones and her spirit and her heart, and he told her it was love. She believed him until the day she died. I used to watch them and think, "I'll never be like that."
But I was. I am. The apple doesn't fall far.
I'm not writing this to make excuses. I'm writing this because I want you to understand: you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't make me this way. I was already broken when you met me. You just couldn't see it because I was good at hiding.
Chloe was never the problem. The money was never the problem. Your family was never the problem. I was the problem. I've always been the problem.
I'm sorry for pushing you. I'm sorry for the stairs and the brakes and the coma. I'm sorry for trying to erase your memory. I'm sorry for making you believe that you couldn't trust yourself.
You can trust yourself, Lina. You always could. I was the one who was lying.
I hope you're happy. I hope Ethan is good to you. I hope the twins have your laugh and your courage and your stubbornness.
I hope you forget my name.
—Ryan
Lina read the letter twice.
Then she folded it carefully and set it back on the nightstand.
Ethan was watching her, his expression unreadable.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Lina thought about it.
"He's sorry," she said. "Or he thinks he is. I'm not sure he knows the difference."
"Do you believe him?"
Lina considered the question. Years ago, she would have said yes. She would have wept over the letter, would have let it reopen wounds that had barely begun to heal. She would have called Ryan and thanked him for his honesty, because that was the kind of person she used to be.
But she was not that person anymore.
"I believe that he believes he's sorry," Lina said. "But sorry doesn't fix what he broke. Sorry doesn't give me back the years I lost. Sorry doesn't erase the fear I still feel when I walk down stairs."
Ethan pulled her close. "What does it do, then?"
Lina rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"It reminds me that I survived," she said. "That's all."
She put the letter in the drawer with the others—her mother's letter, Chloe's letter, Jennifer's letter, Amy's letter. All the words that had been written to her by people who had hurt her.
She did not know if she would ever read them again.
But for now, they were here.
And she was still standing.
---
The Conversation with Sarah
A week later, Lina called Sarah.
They met at a small café near Lina's office. Sarah was nervous, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, her eyes darting around the room.
"Thank you for meeting me," Sarah said.
Lina sat down across from her. "Thank you for the letter."
"Did you read it?"
"Yes."
Sarah was quiet for a moment. "What did it say?"
Lina thought about the question. "It said he was sorry. Or he thought he was."
Sarah nodded slowly. "He was never good at apologizing."
"No. He wasn't."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"I'm not like him," Sarah said again. "I know you have no reason to believe me. But I'm not like him."
Lina looked at her—this woman who shared Ryan's blood but not his cruelty.
"I believe you," Lina said.
Sarah's eyes filled with tears.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Lina reached across the table and took her hand.
"You're not responsible for what he did," Lina said. "You're only responsible for what you do."
Sarah nodded.
"I'm trying," she said. "To be better. To do better."
Lina squeezed her hand.
"That's all any of us can do," she said.
---
End of Chapter Eighty-Two