Chapter 15 - THE LETTER
Whitmore Millwork received North River Capital’s formal non-renewal letter fourteen days after Nina walked barefoot into Sylvia’s dining room.
The company did not collapse.
That surprised Charles.
It probably disappointed the version of the story he preferred, where either I rescued him or destroyed him.
Reality was less dramatic.
And more expensive.
Family Holdings sold the lake property.
Charles stopped taking distributions.
The company’s accountant corrected its borrowing reports.
A regional lender agreed to evaluate a smaller asset-based line once Whitmore reduced debt.
Six employees moved temporarily to shorter schedules.
Nobody missed payroll.
Andrew resigned as president and returned his company vehicle.
Whether Charles eventually allowed him back into the business was no longer my concern.
Sylvia came to my townhouse three weeks later.
She carried two things.
Nina’s yellow dress, professionally cleaned.
And the pink sock.
“I found it under the dining-room cabinet.”
I took it from her.
She looked past me.
“Is Nina home?”
“Yes.”
“May I apologize?”
I considered the question.
“You may ask her.”
Nina came downstairs.
Sylvia did not kneel dramatically.
She did not cry.
She simply said, “I was cruel to you because I cared more about how our family looked than how I made you feel. That was wrong.”
Nina studied her.
“Do you still hate my clothes?”
Sylvia’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
Nina looked at me.
I didn’t answer for her.
Finally she said, “I don’t want to go to your house yet.”
Sylvia nodded.
“All right.”
It was the first boundary Nina ever gave her.
And the first one Sylvia accepted without arguing.
My marriage remained unresolved.
Andrew and I attended counseling separately.
He emailed about practical things.
Insurance.
Repairs.
The mortgage.
Sometimes Nina.
He never again asked me to explain his parents to him.
Six weeks after the dinner, Nina wore her yellow dress to a Saturday farmers market downtown.
She paired it with the patched jeans underneath because the morning was cold.
The combination would have horrified Sylvia.
Nina loved it.
We bought apples, cinnamon bread and a ridiculous bouquet of orange flowers she insisted looked “happy.”
When we returned home, an envelope was leaning against the inside of the mailbox.
Andrew’s handwriting.
Nina saw it.
“Is that from him?”
“Yes.”
She held the flowers against her chest.
“Do I have to read it?”
“No.”
She thought for several seconds.
“Maybe later.”
Inside, she placed the flowers in a mason jar on the kitchen table.
I set Andrew’s unopened letter beside them.
Then Nina ran upstairs, still wearing the yellow dress everyone had once tried to teach her to be ashamed of.
May you like
I left the letter where it was.
For the first time in years, nobody in my house had to decide anything before they were ready.
