Chapter 12 - Victor Writes A Desperate Letter To London
Six months later, a heavy white envelope bearing American postage arrived at my private Kensington address.
I recognized Victor’s handwriting on the front—the neat, cursive script he used to write on my birthday cards years ago.
I sat down in my garden armchair, taking my time as I opened the top seal with my silver letter opener.
Inside were four handwritten pages on cheap notebook paper, written by a man who had clearly lost everything he owned.
“Dear Penelope,” the letter began.
“I am writing this from a small one-bedroom apartment in Arlington. I sold the penthouse three months ago to pay off my legal debts.”
“My parents don't talk to me anymore. My father blames me for the collapse of the engineering firm.”
“Naomi moved to Ohio with Marcus Miller. I haven't seen her since the clinic that morning.”
“I sit here every single night, Penelope, looking at old photos of Abigail and Charlotte when they were babies.”
“I remember how Charlotte used to hold my finger when she fell asleep on the couch.”
“I was so foolish. I was so blind to what my mother and father were doing to our family.”
“I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness after what I said at the mediator’s office.”
“But please, Penelope... just let me talk to my daughters on a video call. Just five minutes.”
“Let me hear their voices. Let me tell them that their father is sorry.”
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I finished reading the four pages, folding the paper neatly back into its original shape.
I held the letter in my hand for a long moment, looking up at the blue London sky above the garden wall.
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