pride, love, and optimism.
But with each letter, what began in joy soon descended into sorrow when my mother surrendered to a candid, honest unloading of her burdens and hardships while caring for my father. She described nerve-racking trips to the hospital, frustrations with incompetent or uncaring home care workers, and a constant feeling of pressure to bolster my father’s spirits whenever he grew maudlin, which was more often than I had ever realized. My mother wrote pages and pages of personal confessions that did not shy away from her loneliness, resentments, and regrets.
Sometimes I think he enjoys seeing me suffer, but I suppose he has a right to take some pleasure in it . . . I would never complain to him. I confess these feelings only to you, Anton. You’re the only one I can tell . . . Yesterday, I stayed home from work because the nurse canceled at the last minute. He didn’t thank me. He never thanks me for anything . . . He knows I’ll never leave him . . .
On numerous occasions, she apologized for complaining and assured Anton that she was at peace with her decision to remain at her post.
I couldn’t live with myself if I left him. I could never be truly happy, not even with you, my darling, in our beautiful Tuscan countryside. But the memory of it makes me happy in my dreams . . . It keeps me going . . .
She begged him, in every letter, not to come to her rescue, and she thanked him for the money he sent.
It’s just enough not to raise questions.
She ended every letter with Yours, forever . . .
I finished reading the last one, which my mother must have written shortly before her death. With tears in my eyes, I set it back in the box and turned to Marco, behind the wheel. “They really did love each other,” I said. “I can’t believe I thought the worst about him. I wish I had known.”
“It’s not your fault,” Marco replied, reaching across the console to take hold of my hand. “Your mother didn’t tell you everything.”
“But why didn’t she?” I asked, wiping at my cheek. “It would have made such a difference if I had known. I wouldn’t have spent the past twelve years of my life hating a man who didn’t deserve to be hated.” Feeling torn—because I was still intensely loyal to my dad—I shut my eyes. “Or maybe he did deserve it, because he was the reason my mom was unfaithful in the first place. If not for him and his good looks and his delicious wine, my father probably wouldn’t have spent most of his life confined to a wheelchair.”
Marco squeezed my hand again. “I think all you can do is accept the past for what it was and be thankful for where you are today. Think of it, Fiona—if your mother hadn’t fallen in love with Anton, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
I gazed out the car window. “That’s true.”
Two letters remained in the box, these not addressed in my mother’s hand. I dug one of them out, bracing myself for the words it probably contained: news of my mother’s passing. It was a business-size envelope with a typed address label. The return address was our home in Tallahassee.
I opened the envelope and unfolded the page. Before I began to read, I glanced at the salutation at the bottom and felt a shiver of apprehension at the sight of my father’s typed signature.
Dear Mr. Clark,
I am writing to inform you that my wife Lillian passed away yesterday from a brain aneurysm. It happened unexpectedly when she was at home in the kitchen and she died a few hours after reaching the hospital.
I am writing now to ask that you respect the promise you made to her and that you do not contact Fiona for any reason. We are both very distraught, and because she is not aware that I am not her real father, I believe it would cause her undue pain and dishonor her mother’s memory if Fiona ever found out, because it’s not what Lillian wanted. Most importantly, I need Fiona here with me. She is all I have left, and she lifts my spirits on the bad days. I couldn’t possibly go on without her. If you have any feelings left for my wife, and if you have any compassion for me, given that you are responsible for what happened to me,