I lived simply now. I hiked in the mornings. I read in the afternoons. I volunteered at a local women’s shelter, teaching financial literacy to women starting over.
Charles came to visit occasionally. He arrived today, carrying a thick envelope.
“Fresh croissants from the village,” Charles said, sitting down opposite me. “And some news.”
“Good or bad?” I asked, pouring him a cup of tea.
“Marcus was sentenced yesterday. Fifteen years. No parole for at least ten.”
I nodded. “Justice.”
“And Lydia…” Charles hesitated.
I put down my cup. “Where is she?”
“She’s in Ohio,” Charles said. “She’s working as a receptionist at a dental clinic. She lives in a studio apartment. She takes the bus to work.”
“Is she… eating?” It was the mother in me asking.
“She is. And she looks… tired, but real.” Charles handed me a letter. “She asked me to give you this. She didn’t ask for money. She just wanted you to read it.”
I took the envelope. My name was written in handwriting that looked tired, hurried.
I opened it.
Dear Mom,
I know you probably won’t read this. I know I don’t deserve for you to read this.
I get paid on Fridays. After rent and groceries, I have about forty dollars left. Last week, I saved enough to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn’t Dom Pérignon. It was $8. And you know what? It tasted better than the champagne at the wedding.
Because I bought it.
I know why you did it. I hated you for a long time. But last month, a young girl came into the clinic. She was crying because she was scared of the dentist. I held her hand. I told her it would be okay. Her mom thanked me.
I went to the bathroom and cried. I missed you. Not the money. Just you. I missed the way you used to brush my hair.
I’m sorry I called you a burden. You were the only thing holding me up. I’m learning to stand on my own now. It’s hard. But the sand beneath my feet is finally real.
Love,
Lydia
I folded the letter. A tear rolled down my cheek, but it wasn’t a tear of grief. It was relief.
“She’s growing,” I whispered.
“She is,” Charles agreed. “Do you want to send a reply? Maybe… send a check?”
I looked at the mountains, steadfast and immovable.
“No check,” I said. “Send her a reply. Tell her I’m proud of her. And tell her… tell her that if she keeps this job for another six months, she can come visit. I’ll pay for the plane ticket. Economy class.”
Charles smiled. “Economy class. Understood.”
I leaned back in my chair, breathing in the cold, clean air. I didn’t have a million-dollar view of a private beach anymore. I didn’t have the adoration of the social elite.
But for the first time in twenty years, I felt rich.
The End.
