The Will
…wrote to you.”
Sophie took off her sunglasses. Her hands were trembling.
The lawyer placed a cardboard box on the table. Inside were fifteen envelopes, one for every birthday since she was seven. Every single one was stamped “RETURN TO SENDER” in her mother’s handwriting.
“He wrote to you every year,” I said quietly. “He sent money for your braces, your prom dress, your college. It all came back. He kept every envelope, because he said one day you’d want to know.”
Sophie opened the first one. A drawing of a horse fell out. Her drawing. The one she had mailed him when she was six.
“Mom told me he left us for you,” she whispered. “She said he never asked about me. Not once.”
“He asked about you every single day,” I said. “He kept your photo on the fridge for fifteen years. Our neighbors thought you were my daughter.”
The condition in the will was simple: she could have the house only after she had read every letter. All fifteen.
She didn’t leave the lawyer’s office that afternoon. She sat on the floor and read them one by one, while I held the box. At the eighth letter, she started crying. At the twelfth, she put her head on my shoulder.
The last letter was written two weeks before he died. It said:
“Sophie, I’m not angry. I never was. I just hope that when you read this, you won’t be alone. Ellen will be there. Be kind to her. She loved you before she ever met you.”
Sophie didn’t sell the house. She moved in last spring. Every Sunday she comes over for dinner, and every Sunday she brings a new drawing for the fridge.
Sometimes the people we hate the most are the ones we were simply told to hate.
