“Maybe I should go,” I say, but his hold on my hand tightens.
“Do you need your inheritance? You’re in management, right? So you’d be making a bit on your own.”
I hesitate, because I really don’t like lying, but talking about trust funds is a tricky subject. “Technically, no. I have more than enough to live off without needing this inheritance.”
“So …”
I sigh and climb off the bed, grabbing my pile of clothes from where I threw them on the floor. “I want to walk away from it all. No marriage, no anything. Just go back to Amsterdam for good this time. Leaving my sister is hard though, and—”
Something stiff crumples under my hand when I move my jacket and I reach into the pocket and pull out Pa’s letter. “Shit.” I’d been so swept up in Christian last night that I’d completely forgotten.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“A letter from my Pa. The one who passed.”
His mouth forms an “O,” and I drop back onto the bed, staring at the paper.
Christian shifts closer. “Have you opened it?”
“Nope.”
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push to know what’s inside, simply places his hand on my back and rubs warm circles against my skin.
I hesitate for a full ten seconds before I realize I actuallywantto open it now. Yesterday, around my family, I hadn’t felt safe, but for some reason, in this room, with this stranger, it’s like I can be whoever I need to be when I read this, and I won’t be judged for it.
He won’t hold me to any expectation, because he has none of those where I’m concerned.
“I’d like to open it now.” I see him nod from the corner of my eye.
“Want me to leave?”
“No. It’s your room. Just …” I force some confidence. “Please keep doing that, it helps.”
His fingers swipe my neck gently on the next upstroke, and I lean into his touch.
Time to do this.
My thumb slips into the corner seam and I drag it backward, tearing open the seal. The paper fills the quiet room with a satisfying ripping sound and then there’s nothing left standing between me and whatever was important enough for Pa to stash away until his passing.
Just seeing his handwriting makes my eyes sting.
Emmy,
My little free spirit. Gone are the days where I could throw you over my shoulder to play airplanes, or toss you into the river when you annoyed me. I guess, if you’re reading this, gone are the days where I can do anything at all.
Since my diagnosis last year, I’ve had time to reflect on a lot of damn things, least of which is the way our family operates. I look around and I see blood relatives staring back with one thing in their eyes: how long before the old fool is gone and we can have access to his money?
And then I see you, and you still look at me the same way you did when you were younger. Only there’s sadness there now. I want to tell you not to be sad for me, but it’s pointless to harp on about your feelings, and honestly, I’m sad for me too. I imagine the bugs are feasting on me about now, so at least they’re happy.
Where I’ll end up has no money. Where I’ll end up is somewhere I’m going much too young. It’s a nasty thing, this Alzheimer’s. The way my brain is slowly turning against me. Even writing this, I’m paranoid the letter won’t end up where it belongs.
If I could have my time again, I’d think of more. I’d leave my toys and my house and pay attention to the rest of the world. I’d use the money for good.
Do you know how frustrating it is to be one of the richest men in the world and have no damn access to your own money? To not be able to give it all away to people who actually need it? None of us are taking it with us beyond this life, so what’s the point of hoarding it all now?
I’m rambling. I’m frustrated, Emmy. But beyond everything, I’m proud. Of you. Of who you’ve become. Of your ability to look outside of the family in a way I never could.
In my last act of rebellion, I completely overturned my will before they thought to start locking me out of the accounts. I caught on to what they were doing and I got there first.