I broke.
I sat in that chair and cried in front of my daughters for the first time since the funeral. And one by one, they came to me. All five of them, even Rosalind.
They held me, and I held them.
On night twenty-three, Warren read a letter addressed to Naomi. It was about a high school student. She’d once taught coding for free—a kid from a low-income family who couldn’t afford classes. Naomi had spent six months mentoring him. He’d gone on to get a scholarship to MIT.
“You used to believe success meant helping others rise,” Harrison wrote. “When did you forget that?”
Naomi stared at the letter for a long time. Then she looked at me.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered.
“Then find out,” I said.
Night twenty-four ended quietly. No fights. No shouting. Just silence.
As we stood to go upstairs, Rosalind turned to me.
“Do you think Dad forgave me?” she asked.
I looked at her for a long moment.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I went upstairs and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. One more night. One more letter. And I still didn’t know if I could forgive her, either.
The final envelope sat on the coffee table—thin, but somehow heavier than all the others combined.
It was night twenty-five.
All six of us sat in the living room—Naomi, Rosalind, Celeste, Violet, Aurelia, and me. Warren stood by the fireplace, holding the last envelope in his hands.
For twenty-four nights, we’d gathered in this room. We’d cried. We’d fought. We’d remembered who we used to be and confronted who we’d become.
Tonight was the end.
Warren opened the envelope slowly, carefully, and pulled out two folded letters.
“Two letters,” he said quietly. “One from your father, one from your mother.”
He unfolded the first and began to read Harrison’s words.
“If you’re reading this, I’m proud of you. Not because you stayed. Not because you want the money. But because you listened. For twenty-five nights, you’ve heard the truth about yourselves—the good, the bad, the ugly—and you didn’t run. But this is only the beginning. Forgiveness isn’t something you receive. It’s something you earn. Now it’s time for your mother to decide.”
Warren set the letter down and picked up the second. He looked at me. I nodded.
He read my words.
“Twenty-five letters cannot erase twenty-five years. Words are easy. Actions are hard. I’m not forgiving you today. Not yet. Go home. Change your lives. Prove to me that these twenty-five nights meant something. Forgiveness takes time. Show me you deserve it.”
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