Chapter 21 - LUCY READS OPHELIA’S EMAILS
At twenty-one, Lucy requested the full family file.
Her right to family records involving her.
We consulted counsel because some documents contained confidential transaction material and employee information.
She received redacted copies where necessary.
Then she read Ophelia’s emails.
Keep inhalers out of west-wing service areas.
Gemma is becoming too important to Lucy.
Lucy issue must be handled separately.
Do not reopen Northline before execution.
Her face hardened.
Then she read my email:
Keep west-wing repairs under operating budget if possible.
She looked at me.
“You were cheaper.”
“That is one way to phrase it.”
“Was it wrong?”
“At the time, not obviously. In hindsight, the culture of deferral was wrong.”
Then:
“Did you ever think I was faking?”
“No.”
“Ever think I was using inhaler too much?”
“I wondered once after Ophelia said it.”
That was the first time I admitted it.
Lucy went still.
“When?”
“Before the Christmas attack. I asked your doctor whether rescue use was too frequent.”
“And?”
“She said your pattern was reasonable but to track triggers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were four.”
She looked away.
Then:
“So she got in your head too.”
“Yes.”
That mattered.
No perfect father.
Then Lucy asked to read Gemma’s notebook again.
The original had been returned to Gemma.
Gemma mailed a scan of relevant pages.
Then one entry I had not focused on:
Lucy asked if Daddy will be mad she coughed during council dinner. Told her no.
My chest tightened.
“Did you ever make me think that?”
“I hope not.”
“That’s not answer.”
“No. I don’t remember ever being angry when you coughed.”
She nodded.
“Probably Ophelia.”
Maybe.
Then:
“Family room was weird.”
Yes.
Children absorb atmosphere without knowing source.
Then Lucy met Ophelia alone.
Adult.
No therapist.
She asked:
“Were you embarrassed by me?”
Ophelia answered:
“Yes.”
Painful.
“Why?”
“Because I had built an image of the house as controlled, elegant, and resilient. Your coughing made me feel people could see something was wrong.”
Lucy stared.
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“Did you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Same time?”
“Yes.”
There.
Contradiction.
Then Lucy said:
“I think I forgive you.”
Ophelia cried.
Lucy continued:
“But I don’t want you telling people we’re close because of it.”
Ophelia nodded.
Good.
No forgiveness as PR.
Then Lucy told me:
“I forgive you too.”
“For what?”
“Not reading maintenance stuff.”
I laughed.
“Thank you.”
Then:
“And slap?”
“I didn’t slap you.”
“You scared me.”
There.
The violence had frightened Lucy too.
I had focused on Ophelia.
Forgotten the child watching.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
That apology was late.
Still needed.
Then she said:
“I don’t think I want the family dinner stories to be about me anymore.”
May you like
Good.
We stopped telling them.
