Chapter 9
Then he said, “The piano is still in the storage room.”
“Keep it.”
“What?”
“Keep it there.”
“Emily—”
“I’m not coming back for it.”
“I can send it to Toronto.”
“No.”
“It belonged to her.”
The words settled between us.
Not to us.
To her.
I closed my eyes. “Then give it to another child.”
Alexander was silent.
“There are music programs,” I continued. “Children who want to learn but whose families can’t afford an instrument. Find one.”
“I will.”
“And the box?”
“I’ll send it to you.”
“No. Keep the drawings.”
“Emily.”
“Keep them,” I said. “But don’t use them to convince yourself that you loved her enough.”
His breathing stopped for a moment.
“I did love her.”
“I know.”
That was the most difficult truth of all.
He had loved Grace.
He had simply failed her in a way love could not excuse.
“I loved you too,” he said quietly.
I looked toward the urn.
“I know that too.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in me.
“No.”
“I can give you time.”
“You should have given me attention.”
“I know.”
“You should have noticed what your choices were doing to us.”
“I know.”
“You should have come when she needed you.”
His voice broke. “I know.”
I ended the call.
Not because I hated him.
Because I had finally understood that remorse could be sincere and still not be enough.
The next morning, a courier delivered a package to my apartment.
Inside was the small cardboard box from the photograph.
On top lay a sealed envelope addressed to me.
I opened it carefully.
Emily,
I found this box in the study. I thought it contained drawings, but there was something beneath them that I had never seen.
I’m sending it to you because it belongs with Grace’s things.
I don’t expect an answer.
Alexander
Beneath the letter was the box.
I removed the drawings one by one.
A purple house.
A family of stick figures.
A cat Grace had never owned.
A picture of me wearing a crown.
Then, beneath the final sheet, I found a folded piece of paper.
This one was not written in Grace’s handwriting.
It was older.
The paper had been creased many times, and the ink had faded along the edges.
I unfolded it.
The letter began:
Alexander,
If you are reading this, then I have already given you the key.