Chapter 4
He was not there.
Instead, four panel members interviewed me for ninety minutes.
They asked about budgets.
Staffing.
Outcome measures.
Family follow-up rates.
One physician challenged whether my proposed transition program duplicated existing social-work services.
I explained why it did not.
A hospital economist questioned the cost.
I showed him where reduced readmissions might offset it.
By the time I walked out, my hands were shaking.
Giovanni was standing in the lobby.
He held two coffees.
“You survived.”
“I may have insulted an economist.”
“He’ll recover.”
“You weren’t on the panel.”
“I told you I wouldn’t be.”
He handed me a coffee.
“You remembered?”
“Two creams.”
“That’s slightly concerning.”
“You had two at the wedding.”
I accepted it.
“That is also concerning.”
He smiled.
We walked toward the elevator.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I work here.”
“That seems suspiciously convenient.”
“It’s my building.”
“Of course it is.”
Outside, rain had begun misting over Michigan Avenue.
Giovanni opened an umbrella.
I stepped beneath it.
For a block, we talked about nothing important.
Traffic.
Coffee.
Sophia’s honeymoon photographs.
Then he said, “Have you opened the letters?”
I stopped.
“How do you know about them?”
“Sophia called me.”
“Why is my sister giving you updates about my life?”
“She called to apologize for the wedding situation. She mentioned you were dealing with a family matter. I asked no questions.”
I studied him.
“You don’t know what they say?”
“No.”
“I haven’t opened them.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Would you prefer unreasonable advice?”
“Maybe.”
He thought.
“Burn them and move to Iceland.”
I laughed.
“That’s terrible.”
“I warned you.”
We reached the corner.
A taxi splashed through a shallow puddle.
Giovanni shifted the umbrella toward me so my shoulder stayed dry.
His own coat darkened with rain.
“Why aren’t you married?” I asked suddenly.
He glanced over.
“Interesting transition.”
“You announced a secret wife in public. I’m allowed one intrusive question.”
“Fair.”
We continued walking.
“I almost was.”
“What happened?”
“We wanted different lives.”
“That’s very mature.”
“It took us three years to become mature about it.”
He looked ahead.
“Her name was Claire. We were engaged. She wanted to move to California and build a small architecture practice. I was taking over pieces of the family business after my uncle became ill. We kept assuming one of us would eventually want what the other wanted.”
“Did anyone?”
“No.”
“So you ended it.”
“Eventually.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret how long we spent treating compromise like proof of love.”
The answer stayed with me.
At the next corner, we stopped.
“My aunt’s matchmaking,” he continued, “is less sinister than I made it sound.”
“I suspected.”
“She likes people paired neatly. Businesses. Dinner tables. Human beings.”
“And the brunette?”
“Camille Moretti. Her father works with ours. Camille has absolutely no intention of marrying me.”
I blinked.
“She looked furious.”
“She was trying not to laugh.”
I stared at him.
“You made me think she wanted me erased.”
“She probably wanted me embarrassed.”
“She succeeded.”
“I deserved it.”
We reached my train entrance.
Giovanni folded the umbrella.
“Jessica?”
“Yes?”
“I owe you one more apology.”
“For?”
“Calling you my wife.”
“I already collected that apology.”
“No. For why I did it.”
He glanced down.
“I was angry.”
“At your aunt?”
“At your ex-husband.”
I said nothing.
“I heard enough of what he said to know it was cruel. I thought giving him a reason to reconsider his assumptions would help you.”
“It didn’t.”
“I know.”
“Tyler’s opinion isn’t the measure of my life.”
“I know that too.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His answer was quiet.
“That’s why I’m apologizing.”
For some reason, that apology mattered more than the first.
He had not rescued me.
I did not want rescuing.
But he had seen that distinction on his own.
The fellowship committee called Monday.
I got it.
I sat on the edge of my bed holding the phone after the call ended, unable to move.
Tuition.
Mentorship.
Protected research hours.
Funding to pilot the program.
For the first time since Lily was born, the future looked larger rather than narrower.
Lily climbed beside me.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because something good happened.”
She considered this.
“People cry for good?”
“Sometimes.”
“That is confusing.”
“Very.”
She hugged my arm.
That evening, I finally opened Tyler’s letters.
The first was clumsy.
Apologetic.
Afraid.
He admitted he had panicked and left because he believed becoming a father meant every dream he had was over.
The second was shorter.
He asked whether Lily had his eyes.
The third was different.
By then, nearly nine months had passed.
Jessica,
I don’t know if silence means you want me gone, and if it does, I’ll respect it. But I need you to know I started putting money aside for Lily. It isn’t much. I gave the account information to Mr. Hale because he was the only person willing to speak to me.
I stopped reading.
My father.
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
I called Sophia.
“Did Dad ever mention an account for Lily?”
“What account?”
“Tyler says he gave Dad information about one.”
There was a long silence.
“Jess.”
“What?”
“When Mom and I cleaned Dad’s office after he died, there was a locked metal file box.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know. Mom said it was probably old insurance paperwork. We put it in storage.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I think so.”
Twenty minutes later, Sophia called back.
Her voice sounded strange.
“I found the box.”
“And?”
“There’s an envelope taped to the lid.”
I stood in my kitchen.
May you like
“What does it say?”
Sophia drew a breath.
