Chapter 10 - Prison Letters
I waited three days before reading rest.
Liam wrote:
That is worse.
Then:
I had money.
He did.
He had savings.
A retirement account.
A salary before termination.
Even after divorce, he left with significant assets.
The club investment was about status.
He wanted own venture.
Something not tied to my firm.
Something he could tell Beatrice he built.
Then:
I decided asking you would make it yours somehow.
That was revealing.
He believed accepting my consent meant dependence.
So he bypassed consent.
Then he wrote:
A man in my financial crimes group keeps saying he used his brother’s name because “family money is family money.”
I hate hearing him.
Because I hear me.
I put letter down.
No reply.
Second letter arrived two months later.
He wrote about prison job.
Routine.
No self pity.
Then:
Mom bought refrigerator.
I laughed.
He had paid from his account before sentencing.
$1,189.
Exactly model.
Beatrice wanted upgraded version.
He said no.
She called him ungrateful.
He wrote:
That was first time I understood what you had been living with.
Not enough to absolve.
But something.
Third letter:
I am not asking you to wait.
Good.
I am not asking marriage back.
Good.
I am asking you not to remember me only holding butter knife.
That line hurt.
Because I did.
Every time someone said Liam, I saw toast.
Yet there had been other Liam.
The one who sang badly in shower.
Who held me after miscarriage? We haven't mentioned. Could. But health memory sensitive? fictional okay. Let's say who held my hand during father's funeral. Better.
The one who slept upright in hospital chair when my father was dying.
The one who drove my nieces to airport.
The one who loved dogs.
He did not become fake because he committed real wrong.
I still did not answer.
Then Beatrice’s letters.
First after six months incarceration:
Maya,
The refrigerator works.
I laughed harder.
Then:
I hate looking at it.
Because every time I open it, I remember I demanded it morning after hurting you.
Then:
I could have bought my own.
Yes.
Then:
I wanted proof Liam could still get something from you.
That was brutal.
Honest.
Then:
I’m sorry.
I did not respond.
My shoulder healed.
A faint scar remained.
Work continued.
Ellison Rowe closed two large transactions.
Partners offered me Chief Investment Officer role.
I almost declined.
Not because Liam.
Because workload.
I negotiated support.
Accepted.
My income grew.
I told no relatives.
Not secrecy.
Privacy.
Difference.
Then house.
I converted Liam’s study into library.
Removed wedding photos from common rooms.
Stored them, not burned.
Changed dining chairs.
Kept table.
Objects did not commit betrayal.
Simone came one evening.
“You sleeping?”
“Better.”
“Dating?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“You’d interview him like private equity deal.”
She was right.
I laughed.
Then fridge in my own kitchen made terrible grinding noise.
I froze.
Then laughed at myself.
Repairman replaced fan for $280.
Life could be boring.
Then victim services sent notice.
Beatrice eligible for supervised reentry sooner than full sentence based on lawful credits.
I felt nothing dramatic.
Then another notice months later.
Liam would be eligible for transition after approximately twenty two months served.
I stared at page.
May you like
The man who had once been my husband was coming back into the same city.
And for the first time, I had to decide whether forgiveness required ever looking at him again.
