Chapter Eleven Sophie
Chapter Eleven
Sophie
Dear Sophie,
We wanted to return our key to the apartment. It doesn't feel right for us to have it after what he did.
Your health, happiness, and safety are our priority. Always.
Honey, please know that we are so ashamed of him and his actions, and we are so sorry for the pain he's caused you. It's been incredibly hard for us to come to terms with what he's done. His actions were careless, callous, and downright cruel, and we are so disappointed in the son we raised.
I need you to know that we are not currently in contact with him. If you decide to reach out to us, please know that we will not give him any information, nor will we let him know we're in contact with you.
If you would prefer complete separation, we completely understand and will respect your decision.
But we are always here for you. You always have a home with us.
I put some casseroles in the freezer—yes, I made you two trays of that chicken and rice casserole you love.
Just bake for thirty minutes at 350. There's also a tray of meatballs and ziti.
Your favorite banana nut muffins are in the fridge.
I also went food shopping and picked up some groceries for you, just in case.
In the box on the coffee table are those mastectomy shirts, and in the bag are a couple of other things I read that were helpful for people going through chemotherapy. Also, a few little gifts for you. Just because.
You were going to be our daughter. That doesn't change just because Paul decided to throw away the best thing that ever happened to him.
All our love,
Donna and Rich
My nose stings, and I have to take a few deep breaths to get myself under control. That seems to be my constant state these last few days, either crying sad tears or happy tears. These are a bit of both.
The note is conflicting for several reasons.
It's beautifully written and genuine, not full of excuses or pleas for forgiveness. Donna's own pain resonates through her words. Rich, while more reserved than his wife, is still an echo I can feel within the letter. No doubt, he was sitting right next to her when she wrote it.
A small smile even comes to my lips when I see that she used the lilac stationery I had bought for her with the pretty floral design that matches my treasured cream one.
Donna had gasped like I had presented her with the Hope Diamond when I gave the flowery paper to her, squeezing me in a tight hug and whispering, "Thank you, honey. "
So I know that she wrote this note with so much care, because that's the only way Donna O'Connor knows how to operate.
My hurt right now feels like a bruise in the process of healing, only painful when you go out of your way to press on it. In my mind, I can clearly picture the bruise on my heart, a horrible, deep purple color getting worse before it gets better. Bruises are only temporary and they heal with time.
My hurt is temporary. It just needs some time.
The words and the maternal presence attached to the letter feel healing. I bring the paper to my nose and am hit with a familiar combination. It's the distinct scent of the O'Connor household, spearmint gum Donna always keeps in her purse, and Chanel No. 5 perfume.
The happy memories from the perfume's scent wash over me. Donna had always said she felt so classy when she wore that particular perfume, and Rich would buy her a new bottle every Christmas, presenting it to her with a flourish and addressing her as, "my very classy lady."
When we got engaged, I wasn't just excited to marry Paul, I was excited to be part of the warm and loving O'Connor family. I was excited to create my own family. Me, Paul, and a couple of kids.
That dream was picture-clear in my head for years.
Memories hit me hard, of Rich distracting Donna while she was trying to cook Christmas dinner, pulling her into his arms so they could dance to Nat King Cole around the kitchen.
I would watch them with quiet admiration, this married couple of thirty-five years acting like newlyweds. Paul would wrap his arms around me as we watched them, his smile warm and fond, as if this were just something he witnessed every day.
I remember thinking that if this was the example of love Paul had growing up, then our happily ever after was going to be wonderful.
One day, he would twirl me around the kitchen as our kids watched, and we would set our example.
Donna and Rich had accepted me almost immediately, and I think of all the holidays and family events I spent with them.
Cooking with Donna in the kitchen, Rich and I playing cards in the living room, Donna and I sitting on the couch together as the O'Connor men and Paul's best friends, Brian and Chris, hooted and hollered while they watched football.
I was happy, building something that I never had.
I hadn't really allowed myself, since everything happened, to think about losing Donna and Rich, too. That loss was going to be as painful as the loss of Paul, if I'm being honest.
But now... there's a chance that I won't lose them. That they want to still be involved in my life. That they do choose me.
But I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt.
Even though Paul betrayed me, I feel like I'm the one who is ruining his relationship with his parents.
I don't want them to choose me over him—he's their son, he's their only child.
Even though he hurt me, even though I hate him right now, I don't want him to lose his parents.
I don't want him to be alone.
Not alone, he has Elise, my thoughts taunt me cruelly.
And that's where the conflicting emotions come in.
I feel exhausted—mentally and physically.
Today was my last day at work for the foreseeable future, and coming home to this kind gesture and loving words undoes me. I can't help but hug the letter to my chest, a tear slipping down my cheek.
The entire way home, I sat in rush hour traffic, dreading the thought of having to run to the grocery store. I already resigned myself to being up late prepping meals for this week with the port surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning.
While I had been mentally organizing the logistics of what to cook and how to be time-efficient through the process, I stepped into my apartment and felt off. It was subtle, that hair-standing-up-on-your-arms sensation that tells you something is out of place.
When I walked into the living room, I saw a large pastel-yellow gift bag and a delivery box on my coffee table. In front of them lay a note with a key taped to it that I immediately recognized as the spare key we had given Donna and Richard for emergencies.
The sight that greets me when I open my fridge makes me smile widely, and I think Donna just secured her place in Heaven.
My fridge is neatly packed with all my favorite foods: the promised muffins, my favorite fruits and veggies, two jugs of my preferred almond milk, two jugs of iced tea, fresh eggs, and that really good Parmesan she gets at the Italian market.
I open my freezer and laugh when I see the neatly stacked casseroles and tins of meatballs and ziti. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
I was so nervous when Paul brought me here for the first time to meet his family. I had wanted them to like me so much, and I had been worried because Paul was the first relationship I'd ever had that was serious enough to meet the family.
I didn't really date too much in high school, too focused on getting out of my house.
My parents were arctic with each other, so I had no example of a romantic relationship to emulate.
Romance books became an escape for me. Back then, they became the basis for what I was looking for in a relationship—a little silly and naive, but all I had at the time.
Once I got to college, I cut contact with my parents, emotionally and financially, and afterward, I felt a sense of freedom I'd never experienced before. Their parenting styles toward Tess and me were different.
With her, they suffocated.
With me, they retreated.
Tess wouldn't bend to them, always following her own path, but I'm not as strong as her.
For too long, despite Tess's gentle warnings, I tried so hard to get them to acknowledge me.
Even having those same demands imposed on me would have felt better than what I actually received from them, which was absolutely nothing.
They always demanded academic excellence from Tess, and I saw that as my way in.
I would present my near-perfect report cards to them, only to receive a dismissive nod in return.
I wrote and rewrote papers until they were flawless, then left them on their desks with the teacher's A+ in bright red marker at the top, only to find them later in the trash.
I showed them my Honor Society award and told them the ceremony time, only for them not to show up.
That was the moment I realized that nothing I ever did would be good enough, so I stopped caring. I shifted my focus to getting out instead. I graduated with a near-perfect GPA and was accepted to the University of North Carolina with a decent scholarship.
That August after I graduated was the last time I ever talked to them, a tepid goodbye before I drove away to school.
It was scary, exhilarating, difficult, and wonderful.
Sure, I had to waitress at diners all four years of college just to pay my bills, but getting screamed at for forgetting someone's syrup when it's directly in front of them can really build character.
My first year of college, living in dorm life, was chaotic, messy, and drama-filled, and I felt so alive.
I made good grades, waited tables, and came home smelling like bacon and sweat.
I hung out with friends whenever I could, went on many awful dates, and got drunk on gross beer at frat parties, waking up one too many times to spend my morning with my head in the toilet.