Chapter 22 - Linda Comes Back

Linda returned to Massachusetts in August.

I learned because she wrote me a letter.

A real letter.

No email.

No voicemail.

No surprise visit.

Rachel received it first because Linda sent it through counsel.

That detail alone told me something had changed.

The letter was three pages.

I read it once.

Then again.

Emily,

I have written six versions of this and each one became an explanation. Nathan tells me explanations are what I use when apologies feel too small.

He is probably right.

I am sorry.

Not for “how things happened.”

For what I did.

I created the email account using your name.

I copied the signature from the document Grant brought me.

I convinced myself you would eventually approve everything, so the method did not matter.

That was dishonest.

I encouraged Grant to exclude you from Christmas because I believed you were making him weak.

The truth is that I was afraid he would choose his marriage over rescuing me.

I treated that as betrayal.

I used his loyalty until it became resentment toward you.

He made his own choices. I am not taking responsibility for all of them.

But I am finally taking responsibility for mine.

I do not expect forgiveness.

Linda

I sat at my studio desk for a long time.

The letter did not erase anything.

But it did something unexpected.

It removed the argument.

For months, part of my mind had continued debating Linda.

Explaining.

Defending.

Proving.

Her letter meant I could stop.

I wrote one sentence back.

Thank you for telling the truth. I wish you peace.

Nothing more.

Rachel asked if I wanted to send it.

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to say anything else?”

“No.”

That chapter did not require another scene.

In September, Claire invited me to Lily’s school fundraiser.

I almost declined.

Grant might be there.

Linda might be there.

Then I realized avoidance was another way people could occupy my life.

So I went.

Grant stood near the gym entrance.

He saw me.

Smiled.

Not hopeful.

Just warm.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He looked healthier.

Less polished than before.

More grounded.

“Mom isn’t coming.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know.”

Nathan arrived carrying two trays of cupcakes.

Claire shouted instructions from across the gym.

The girls ran everywhere.

Normal chaos.

Grant and I ended up beside the raffle table.

“Did you get Mom’s letter?”

“Yes.”

“She worked on it for months.”

“I could tell.”

“Did it help?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

Then looked down.

“She apologized to me too.”

“For what?”

“Making me responsible for her feelings.”

That sentence contained years.

“Did you accept?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I’m still keeping boundaries.”

“Better.”

He smiled.

“You sound like my therapist.”

“I’m more expensive.”

He laughed.

We stood there comfortably.

No tension.

No longing strong enough to frighten me.

Then a woman walked over.

“Grant?”

He turned.

She was around our age, curly dark hair, bright yellow sweater.

“This is Maya,” he said.

Something in his voice told me.

Not girlfriend, exactly.

Potential.

Maya smiled.

“I’ve heard good things about you.”

I glanced at Grant.

He looked mortified.

“I promise that sentence sounds worse than she meant.”

I laughed.

“It’s okay.”

And surprisingly, it was.

I shook Maya’s hand.

“I’m Emily.”

“I know.”

Then she immediately winced.

“Still bad.”

We both laughed.

Grant relaxed.

Walking away later, I waited for jealousy.

It came.

Small.

Human.

Then passed.

Love does not vanish on legal schedule.

Neither does possession need to replace it.

Grant was no longer mine.

I was no longer his.

That did not mean our years had disappeared.

It meant our futures were allowed to diverge.

That night, I returned home and painted until midnight.

The hydrangea painting was finally beginning to resemble flowers.

I sent a picture to Claire.

She replied:

Lily says broccoli has improved.

I smiled.

Then another message arrived.

From Sophie.

Christmas flights to Montreal are cheap. Want to escape the whole holiday circus this year?

I stared at the message.

A year earlier, escape would have sounded perfect.

Now it didn’t.

I looked around my house.

My studio.

Dad’s table.

The garden.

Lily’s ornament.

I typed back:

Actually, I think I want to be home for Christmas.

That answer surprised me.

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For months, Christmas had belonged to the worst sentence Grant ever said to me.

Maybe it was time to take the holiday back.