Chapter 4
Daniel was silent for several seconds.
“When Dad was sick, he knew you were worried about going back to your old job.”
“I never told him that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Of course not.
Our father had spent thirty years repairing engines.
He could hear a problem before most people noticed the sound.
“He thought you stayed because of him.”
“I did stay because of him.”
“He knew.”
My throat tightened.
Daniel continued.
“He was grateful.
And guilty.”
“He had nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I told him that.”
“What did he say?”
“That guilt doesn’t ask permission.”
That sounded exactly like Dad.
I sat on a bench.
People moved around me.
“Daniel, what does this have to do with Thomas?”
“Dad made me promise that after he was gone, I wouldn’t push you back toward your old career.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he thought everyone was going to tell you what you should do.
He didn’t want us turning his death into some obligation to ‘get your old life back.’”
My eyes burned.
I blinked quickly.
“He said if you wanted to translate again, you’d find your way there.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you told Thomas not to call.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“From what?”
“Another decision.”
His voice cracked slightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to remind me that my younger brother had lost the same father I had.
“You were handling the apartment.
The bills.
The insurance.
The funeral.
You were working constantly.
Every conversation was someone asking you for something.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I thought one less person asking you to decide your future would help.”
“You could have told me later.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
This silence lasted longer.
Finally Daniel said, “Because the longer I waited, the worse it sounded.”
I laughed despite myself.
“That might be the most Ward-family explanation imaginable.”
He laughed too.
A shaky, relieved sound.
For the first time in months, I missed him without anger attached.
“There’s something else,” he said.
I smiled ruefully.
“Of course there is.”
“When I cleared Dad’s garage, I found a box.”
“What box?”
“Papers.
Old letters.
Insurance things.
I thought most of it was junk.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“There’s an envelope with your name on it.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“From Dad?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“It’s his handwriting.”
“When did you find it?”
“Two years ago.”
“Daniel.”
“I know.”
“Two years?”
“I couldn’t open it.”
“You weren’t supposed to open it.”
“No, I mean I couldn’t even look at it without…”
He stopped.
My anger softened.
“I put the box in storage,” he said.
“Then every time I thought about sending it, I worried it would hurt you.”
“You should have let me decide that.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
But this time I heard what sat underneath it.
Regret.
Not malice.
Not indifference.
Just my brother, doing what I had done in different ways—making decisions alone because grief had convinced both of us that asking for help would burden the other.
“Can you send it?”
“I can do better.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m in New York.”
I stood.
“What?”
“My flight landed this morning.”
“Why?”
“Because Natalia Volkov called me.”
I stared at the street.
“She called you?”
“She tracked me down through Thomas.”
This woman had apparently decided my entire family suffered from inadequate communication.
Daniel continued.
“She said you might be facing some old questions and that maybe you shouldn’t face all of them alone.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed.
Probably both.
“Where are you?”
“Penn Station.”
I closed my eyes.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“Before dinner?”
“Daniel.”
“I brought the box.”
That ended the argument.
An hour later, my brother stood outside my apartment.
He looked older.
Thinner.
His hair was longer.
But when he smiled, I saw the seventeen-year-old who used to steal cereal from my bowl and insist food tasted better when it belonged to someone else.
Neither of us knew whether to hug.
So naturally we began by insulting each other’s coats.
Then he hugged me.
I held on longer than I expected.
The box sat between us on my kitchen table later that night.
Inside were tax returns, medical receipts, an expired warranty for a lawn mower Dad had sold twelve years earlier, photographs, two birthday cards he had apparently forgotten to mail, and an envelope.
ELENA.
Dad’s handwriting.
I touched it.
Daniel sat across from me.
“You don’t have to open it tonight.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I do.”
Inside was one sheet of yellow legal paper.
Dad had always written letters on legal pads because he believed stationery was “paper wearing a necktie.”
I smiled before I had read a word.
Ellie,
If Daniel actually gives you this, congratulate him.
Following instructions has never been his strongest skill.
Daniel protested.
“I hate him.”
I laughed, wiping suddenly wet eyes.
Then I continued.
I won’t tell you what job to take because I raised you specifically so nobody could tell you what to do, including me.
You gave me more time than I deserved to ask for.
Don’t turn that time into a debt.
That sentence blurred.
I stopped.
Daniel looked away to give me privacy without leaving.
I read on.
I know you think you lost something when you came home.
Maybe you did.
People lose things.
Jobs, plans, years, certainty.
That doesn’t mean the next thing is smaller.
I was proud of you when you sat in rooms with important people and spoke three languages.
I was also proud of you when you learned how to argue with the insurance company.
Those are not different daughters.
Pick a life where you recognize yourself.
Love,
Dad
P.S.
Don’t let Daniel have my socket wrench set.
He loses tools.
Daniel pointed at the page.
“That accusation remains unproven.”
I laughed through tears.
Then I read one line again.
Those are not different daughters.
For years I had divided my life into before and after.
Before Dad got sick.
After.
Before Riga.
After.
Translator.
Waitress.
Successful.
Failed.
I had never considered that both versions of me belonged to the same life.
Daniel reached across the table.
“So.”
“So?”
“You going to apply for the job?”
I looked at the application folder Thomas had given me.
Then at Dad’s letter.
“I don’t know.”
Daniel nodded.
“That sounds healthy.”
I smiled.
The following afternoon, I returned to Le Rêve.
Before service, Simon called me into his office.
“There’s a problem.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“Table 4.”
I stared at him.
“Dominic?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
Simon rubbed his jaw.
“He requested you specifically.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
I felt the old instinct to prepare for conflict.
Then Simon handed me a folded note.
“He dropped this off himself.”
I opened it.
The handwriting was surprisingly neat.
Ms.
Ward,
I owe you a conversation conducted in a language we both understand.
If you are willing, I would appreciate five minutes.
D.
Pierce
I read it twice.
Simon watched me.
“You don’t have to serve him.”
“I know.”
“You don’t even have to speak to him.”
“I know.”
“What do you want to do?”
That question stayed with me.
Not what should I do?
Not what would prove something?
What did I want?
I folded the note.
“I’ll give him five minutes.”
At seven thirty, Dominic arrived alone.
No entourage.
No Victor.
No Natalia.
He wore a navy suit instead of charcoal.
He stood when I approached.
That, more than anything, told me the evening would be different.
“Ms.
Ward.”
“Mr.
Pierce.”
He glanced toward the empty chair opposite him.
“I won’t keep you.”
“I’m working, so that would be helpful.”
A faint smile appeared.
Fair enough.
He looked down at his hands.
“I behaved badly the other night.”
I waited.
“I thought you were someone I could impress my guests by embarrassing.”
He said it plainly.
No euphemism.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You don’t make apologies easy.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
For one second I thought he might be offended.
Instead he laughed softly.
“No.
I suppose you weren’t.”
He became serious.
“Victor has declined the logistics proposal.”
I said nothing.
“That isn’t your concern.
I only mention it because I initially assumed you had influenced him.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Victor told me.”
Dominic looked toward the window.
“He said the problem was not anything you said.
The problem was that watching me speak to you made him reconsider how I behave when I think someone has less power than I do.”
That surprised me.
Dominic’s mouth tightened.
“I didn’t enjoy hearing that.”
“I imagine not.”
“He was right.”
The words were quiet.
I studied him.
This was not a transformation.
Men did not become different people because of one uncomfortable dinner.
But perhaps they could notice something they had spent years refusing to see.
Dominic looked back at me.
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“I’m not sure there’s enough between us to require it.”
Another faint smile.
“Also fair.”
He reached into his jacket.
For one second, I expected another business card.
Instead he placed the wine list on the table.
“The 1990 Margaux.”
“Yes?”
“You were right about that too.”
I laughed.
It escaped before I could stop it.
Dominic smiled.
“Apparently this week has been educational.”
I started to leave.
“Elena.”
I turned.
“Victor mentioned you may be considering returning to translation.”
I stiffened.
Dominic raised one hand.
“I’m not offering you anything.”
“Good.”
“I assumed you’d say that.”
A brief silence passed.
Then he said, “For what it’s worth, you were very good at your job here.”
Were.
The word caught my attention.
“I haven’t quit.”
“No.”
His expression held a trace of amusement.
“But you’re going to apply.”
I looked at him.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Then decide for your own reasons.”
The sentence sounded familiar.
Dad.
Natalia.
Simon.
Even Thomas.
Everyone, in different ways, had brought me back to the same point.
My life could not be chosen by guilt.
Not guilt over my father.
Not resentment toward Riga.
Not pride after Table 4.
Not the need to prove Dominic Pierce wrong.
That night, after my shift, I went home.
Daniel was asleep on the couch beneath a blanket he had complained was “aggressively decorative.”
Dad’s letter sat on the table.
The application deadline was eleven hours away.
I opened my laptop.
The first question was simple.
Why are you interested in returning to international language work?
My fingers hovered over the keys.
Returning.
I deleted the word from my mind.
I was not returning.
The woman who had left Riga did not exist anymore.
Neither did the daughter who had sat beside a hospital bed trying to make promises to the future.
I began typing.
At 1:38 a.m., I submitted the application.
At 1:39, I felt absolutely no different.
At 1:41, I made tea.
At 1:47, Daniel wandered into the kitchen.
“You did it?”
“How do you know?”
“You make tea when you’ve made a major life decision.”
“That is not true.”
“You made tea after breaking up with Marcus.”
“That was eight years ago.”
“You made three cups.”
I threw a dish towel at him.
He caught it.
Then he saw my face and became serious.
“You okay?”
I looked toward Dad’s letter.
“Yes.”
And for once, the word felt true.
Five days later, I received an email from the institute.
I had been selected for an interview.
I read it during my break at Le Rêve.
Then another email appeared underneath it.
This one was from Natalia.
Congratulations.
Victor told me you applied.
But before you walk into that interview, there is one last thing you should know.
I frowned.
A second message arrived.
It contained an attachment.
Not from Riga.
Not from Thomas.
May you like
It was dated three weeks before my father died.
And at the bottom of the page was my father’s signature.
