36. Sophia

THIRTY-SIX

SOPHIA

I blink several times, trying to clear away the paralyzing numbness that has taken control of my body and the tears that won’t stop falling. But it’s useless. My brain is a fog, as though it’s shut down for the day. It won’t send simple commands like “move” or “stop crying” to my body. I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. My heart is racing, working overtime to keep up with the tidal wave of emotions coursing through me.

I read the letter again. Over and over. Each time, I dissect every word, every sentence, every paragraph of the wrinkled, tear-streaked paper.

My heart rips open from the weight of it all. My dad had cancer. He died from cancer—not a heart attack. An anguished sob escapes me, raw and unrelenting. He died from cancer—stage four pancreatic cancer. And my mom knows. Maxim knows. The grief I thought I had buried months ago swallows me whole. My mom knows. Maxim knows. Maxim knows. The hurt, the anger, the sadness, the betrayal—they feel like cement blocks stacked on top of my chest, pressing down so hard, I can’t breathe, no matter how desperately I try to gasp for air.

No. No. No, this can’t be real. I shake my head violently, willing the words to disappear. This letter is a joke. It has to be a joke. My dad didn’t have cancer. He died from a heart attack.

I try to crumple the letter, to throw it away, but my hands won’t cooperate. They tremble, the paper crackling in my grip. With a frustrated sigh, I skim the letter again, because, apparently, I enjoy torturing myself. I close my eyes, the weight of it all too much to bear. This is my dad’s handwriting.

My heart races, thumping wildly as my breathing becomes shallow and frantic. The rage surges inside me, swallowing every other emotion. I cling to it, pushing everything else aside. Anger is the only thing that won’t break me right now. I need answers.

I slam the letter on the desk, grabbing my phone, my fingers shaking as I press the end button on Maxim’s call. I don’t care what I miss; I don’t care about anything but the truth. I dial my mom’s number, hearing it ring twice before she picks up.

“Hi—”

I cut her off before she could finish. “Why didn’t you tell me Papi died of cancer?” The words come out in fits, each one punctuated by sobs that wrack my body.

The line goes silent for several agonizing seconds. Then, she takes a shaky breath, her voice soft but heavy with something I can’t quite place. “I was wondering how long it would take for that good-for-nothing criminal boyfriend of yours to tell you about your dad’s cancer.”

She knows. She knows about Maxim. She knows about Dad’s secret life.

There’s so much to unpack in what she just said, so many layers I’m afraid to peel back. Since Maxim and Andrei told me about my dad, I’ve wondered if my mom knew about his secret life. But I was too scared to ask, too afraid of the answer. If she didn’t know, we’d both be left with shattered pieces and no way to put them back together. Thinking back to the day Maxim crashed our brunch, I should’ve realized something was off, the way she looked at him—so much hatred, so much anger. But I was too wrapped up in my own feelings of embarrassment and lust to dig deeper.

“Maxim didn’t tell me anything,” I snap at her, defensive even though I’m angry with him too. “Dad left me a letter.”

“Ese hombre y sus estúpidas cartas,” she sighs, her tone a mix of frustration, annoyance, and—is that resentment I hear? I can’t be hearing it right. She can’t resent Dad. I refuse to believe she has ill feelings toward him. The love I saw between them growing up doesn’t allow my mind to accept the idea that my mother feels anything but love for my father.

“That man is my dad and your husband. And he was going through so much excruciating pain from cancer that you both kept from me.” I can’t help but point it out, the bitterness seeping into my voice. “And if writing letters was how he coped with his prognosis, then who are you to be upset about the letters he wrote?”

“I’m not upset about the letters, Sophia. I’m upset he wrote them to begin with. Your dad, like you love to point out, should’ve said his peace in person—not left letters for me to hand out like his death wasn’t going to be hard on me to begin with.”

As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. Dad should’ve said goodbye in person. That would’ve made everything easier. But that’s speaking from how I’m feeling right now, having read those letters. My lip tugs down in a frown. Easier for whom, though? Not for me.

It wouldn’t have been easy on him either. My dad was terrible at expressing his feelings. He’d suppress them until he couldn’t anymore. But I can’t only think about him when my mom is right about how hard this must’ve been for her. He was already gone, but she had to face people, their grief mirroring her own while dealing with her own silent pain.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have attacked you. Giving out those letters must have been harder on you than I realized.”

“Yeah,” she hesitates, her voice small. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy.”

I get the strange feeling from the shift in her tone that she didn’t send those letters. “Mom, did you even send them?”

“No, I didn’t send them, Sophia,” she snaps, her voice rising in frustration. “Please, don’t start judging me.”

“I’m not judging, Mom. I understand why you couldn’t.”

“Because I couldn’t, Sophia.” She rambles on as though she didn’t hear me. Her mind is clearly on defense. “I couldn’t look that man in the face. I couldn’t hand the letters to the person who kept your father from doing a lot of things with us as a family. I just—” She cuts herself off, suddenly stopping, as if realizing she almost said something she didn’t want to.

My eyebrows furrow in confusion, curious about what she stopped herself from saying. “You couldn’t face what?” I push for an answer, the frustration mounting. There’s something she’s hiding, and I’m tired of all the lies people have fed me to protect me, to keep me safe.

She sucks her teeth loudly, exaggerating the sound, ensuring I hear how irritated she is. “Olvídate, Sophia. I just couldn’t do it. Let it go.”

I know there’s no point in pressing further—she won’t answer. “Where’s Maxim’s letter, Mom?”

“That’s what you care about? His stupid letter? Not the reasons why your father couldn’t be with us during special occasions? Why wasn’t he there to tuck you in at night? Why he left during holidays, during award ceremonies, in the middle of the night—” She falls silent for a moment, the sound of her washing dishes stopping abruptly. “Unless you already know about your dad being a mafioso’s family doctor.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the all-too-familiar deflection. I’ve seen it a hundred times. She’s trying to shift focus, turning something small into something bigger to make me forget my question.

“Yes, Mom. I know everything.”

“How dare you still be with that horrid person?” Her voice is sharp, filled with disgust.

I’m not in the mood for this. “Where’s Maxim’s letter? And how many other letters did Dad write?”

“He wrote one to you and Maxim.”

Not one to Jenny? Why? I freeze, thinking back to the letter Dad wrote to me. He said you are mine and your mom’s greatest joy. Not you and your sister. Not mine and your mom’s greatest joy s . Suddenly, memories of my childhood flash through my mind—Dad always seemed closer to me, excluding Jenny from many things he and I did together. Could that be why she hated me? Did I steal his attention from her?

“Why didn’t Dad leave one for Jenny?” I ask, my hand trembling with nerves. Could this finally answer a question I’ve had my whole life?

“I don’t know why he didn’t, Sophia,” she replies, a touch of bitterness creeping into her voice. “I wasn’t privy to what went on in your father’s head.”

“Where’s Maxim’s letter?” I push again, hoping she’ll answer this time.

“Ay dios mío, when you latch onto something?—”

“Mom, please. Just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“It’s in the same box I put yours in.”

“Thank you.”

“Adiós, Sophia.”

She hangs up before I can say goodbye. I release an exasperated breath and slump into the chair. That conversation was draining, with so much left unsaid. But I’m not unpacking it now. I’m exhausted, and I feel like I have more questions than answers. Why didn’t Jenny get a letter? What happened between my parents that made my mom resent Dad so much? What is she hiding? Why did Dad leave Maxim a letter, and what does it say?

Curiosity gnaws at me. I rummage through the box until I find an envelope with Maxim’s name on it. I hold it in my hands, staring at it as if somehow, magically, I’ll be able to read its contents without opening it.

I don’t know how long I sit there, torn between opening it and respecting Maxim’s privacy. It feels like a cartoon moment, with an angel and devil arguing in my head.

It’s a letter from your dad, giving you the right to read it, but it’s not for you. It’s for Maxim. What if it says something you’re not supposed to know? But Maxim will tell you what’s in it eventually, won’t he?

I groan, slamming the letter down on the desk. My mind is made up—I won’t open it. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone reading my letter before I had the chance. I won’t cross that line, disrespecting his privacy. If he tells me, great. If not, I’ll have to live with that. Some things are better left unsaid.

I pause, reflecting on my earlier argument with him about being open. It makes me a hypocrite. He doesn’t need to tell me everything. Some things belong in the past. God, I’ve been so hard on him.

Just then, my phone vibrates, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s probably Maxim, wondering why I hung up. I grab my phone and answer.

“I’m sorry I hung up. I’ll explain everything as soon as you’re done,” I say.

“Sophia.” Wait—this isn’t Maxim’s voice. It’s a woman’s. I freeze, and my breath catches in my throat. My heart races. It’s Elena.

“What do you want?” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t help it. She has to know I know about her betrayal—feeding information to the person who kidnapped me, who set me up. How dare she call me?

“Sophia, please. I need your help.” Her voice is frantic, breathless.

“Why mine?” What could I possibly do for her now?

“You helped me once.” Yeah, I helped her once when I thought she was just a lost, broken woman who had her whole world flipped upside down by an unplanned pregnancy.

“I’m sorry, Elena, but there’s nothing I can do for you.” I go to hang up, but what she says next stops me cold. My heart starts pounding as if it wants to escape my chest.

“I wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for your family.”

My stomach tightens, nausea spiraling in my gut. “What do you mean?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. How is my family involved?

“Meet me, and I’ll tell you.”

It’s most likely a trap, a ploy to use my family against me. And, damn it, it’s working. Curiosity kills the cat, after all.

“Where do I meet you?” I ask, resolve to settle over me. I’ll text Maxim when I’m in the car.

“I’m waiting for you in your clinic.”

“I’ll see you in thirty.”

“Sophia?” she calls my name just before I hang up.

“Yes?”

“Do not tell Maxim or Andrei.” She says it with finality and hangs up.

My stomach sinks for a second, but then an idea starts forming in my mind. I don’t need to tell him. He’ll know the moment I step outside these walls.

Before heading to my car, I go to Maxim’s drawer and grab his spear gun. I don’t know what I’m walking into, but I’ll take any protection I can get.

I stop for a moment, closing my eyes and taking several deep breaths. Calm down. Let the fear go. Channel the badass, strong woman that has been buried deep inside.

You can do this. You can face your demons .

“Fuck yeah, I can.”

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