first check.”
My throat tightened. All this time, my grandmother had known who my father was and hadn’t told me. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “You’ve been keeping his identity a secret from me. Even if he is a money-grubbing jerk, I had a right to know.”
“When you were a child, it wasn’t up to me to tell you who he was; it was your mother’s.”
My nails dug into my palms. “But after that? After she died?”
“You never asked me,” she said. “And it’s not exactly a conversation one has over the phone.”
She had a logical answer for everything. If I was being honest with myself, she’d only been trying to protect me from a distance. And perhaps grandmothers did know best.
She raised a frail hand. I took it in mine. “Ma chérie, we both know I’m in the process of dying. I may have a few days. I may have a week. Maybe a month. You have your answers. I got my last confession in before I transition over to the other side. Your mother tore my heart apart when she did what she did,” she said with a sob. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your father. I’m sorry for so many things. I need to put the past behind me. Isn’t that what you want so we can both move on with peace—not resentment or hate—in our hearts?”
“I’d like that,” I said, wiping away my tears.
“Me, too, my love, me, too.” Her customarily steady voice shook with vulnerability; I knew she was telling the truth.
I spent the next few weeks with Grand-mère, looking through photo albums and talking about days gone by, and preparing her meals. We’d just finished eating our galettes, which were savory versions of crêpes, when she dabbed her napkin to her lips and said, “I have something else to show you. It’s the letter your mother wrote to me before she left this earth.”
“She wrote you?” I asked, my heart thumping against my ribs. “Where is it?”
“In my nightstand.”
I scrambled over to the other side of the bed and opened the drawer, finding the letter immediately. Water droplets had turned the paper thin in some places—tearstains, either my grandmother’s or my mother’s.
“Please don’t read it out loud,” said Grand-mère. “I know each and every word by heart.”
Dear Mother,
You and Father were right about everything. I want to be clear for Sophie, but it’s impossible through all the pain I’ve brought onto myself and onto her. Perhaps I should have followed your advice and stayed on my medications. But I never listened to you even when you were right. I should never have taken her from Champvert. It was selfish of me. The money I’ve received means nothing to me. I spend it on frivolous things and I haven’t taken care of my daughter. The truth of the matter is that Sophie takes care of me. I’m a failure—as a woman, as a mother, as a daughter. I’m sorry for all the harsh words we’ve exchanged over the years. I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’ve never hated you. I’ve always loved you. I was just too messed up in the head to see it. Something is wrong with me and I can’t fix it. So I’m doing something about it. Please take care of Sophie; she deserves better.
All my love,
Céleste
My breathing slowed down. My mother loved me. She’d left a note. Her death hadn’t been my fault, like I’d thought all these years. I held up the letter, waving it, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Of all the secrets you’ve kept from me over the years, why this one? I thought maybe she did what did because of me. Don’t you realize I needed this?”
“Because it hurt too much,” said Grand-mère. Like me, she was crying, gasping and wheezing. “I lost her. I couldn’t do anything to stop her. By the time her letter arrived, it was too late. She was gone. Please don’t be angry with me. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to protect you from the pain I felt.”
“I’m not angry, Grand-mère,” I said. “I’m hurt and I’m confused and I’m upset.”
“Ma chérie, I understand. Please, forgive me.”
Forgiveness. Perhaps I would have found out all these truths if I’d come back to Champvert sooner. But I hadn’t. And I realized my grand-mère shouldn’t be the one asking for forgiveness. It was me.