For My Children

Samuel Price arrived at Charles's apartment carrying a leather case older than most of Charles's employees.

"Your father bought me this," he said when Daniel offered to take it. "He said the previous one made him look underrepresented."

Charles recognized the complaint. "He hated anything he couldn't choose for someone else."

The retired attorney gave him a careful look.

"Yes. He did."

Elena and Thomas were waiting in the living room. Three weeks had passed since the gala. They had eaten together twice, argued once about who would pay for dinner, and avoided the subject of Richard whenever Lyla was in the room.

Today she was next door with Mrs. Bell, baking something Charles had been warned he would have to eat.

Price sat slowly.

"The independent advisers have the trust records," he began. "I'm here with the personal material Elena asked me to retrieve. I should explain why none of you saw it earlier."

He set a sealed envelope on the table.

Richard's handwriting covered the front.

For my children.

Charles looked away first.

Price described an archive transferred between offices after his retirement, then indexed badly. The recent review had recovered the packet. Some records belonged with the trustees; the family correspondence had come to him.

"I should have accounted for it before I left," he said. "I can't offer you a better answer."

Charles wanted to be angry at an error he could understand. Instead he found himself studying a sunspot on the old man's hand.

"Did he intend you to deliver this?"

"He spoke about doing it himself. Then his health worsened. I believed the personal letters had gone out. I was wrong."

Thomas sat very still beside Elena.

Charles picked up the envelope and opened it.

He recognized his father's habit of crossing out a word once, decisively, so the original remained visible. Richard had disliked blotting mistakes. He had preferred to pretend they were choices.

My children,

I have spent too long making arrangements when I should have been making apologies.

Charles's thumb pressed into the paper.

"Would you like me to read it?" Elena asked.

He shook his head.

The letter began with Thomas.

Richard admitted that he had known about his son from the beginning. He had sent money and called that responsibility. When Thomas came asking for recognition, Richard treated the request as a threat to the family he had chosen to acknowledge.

There was a line about Marianne working through her illness that Charles couldn't read aloud on the first attempt.

Thomas stared at the rug while he tried again.

Then came Elena.

I told you the truth would hurt your mother because I did not want to admit that I had hurt her already. I let you carry the fear of consequences that belonged to me.

Elena put her hand against her mouth.

Charles continued until he reached his own name.

I praised you for needing nothing. It suited me to have a son who would take over a room before anyone noticed what was missing from it. You were very young when I began expecting you to be older than everyone else.

He stopped.

He remembered his father telling him to take his mother home from the police station after Elena disappeared. Charles had been twenty-three. Richard had praised him afterward for not crying.

Elena's fingers touched his wrist.

This time he let her finish reading.

The last paragraph asked them to meet one another without letting Richard's failures decide the outcome.

For a while, the only sound came from traffic far below.

"He could have said all of that," Thomas said.

Price bowed his head. "Yes."

"He could have picked up a telephone."

"Yes."

Charles knew the shape of the anger. Elena had sat opposite him while he said almost the same thing.

"You don't have to forgive him today," he told Thomas.

His brother looked at him.

"I don't know whether I ever will."

Charles nodded. "All right."

Thomas pressed a finger against the arm of the sofa, holding himself steady.

Price brought out a second, smaller envelope. "This was with it. It's addressed to you, Thomas."

Thomas opened it reluctantly. Charles watched his eyes move down the page.

"He asked me to visit," Thomas said.

Elena leaned closer.

"Six months before he died. He said he wanted to introduce me properly."

"To whom?" Charles asked.

Thomas handed him the page.

If you feel unable to speak to me first, contact Margaret. She has asked to meet you. She knows I have handled this badly.

Charles read the lines twice.

His mother had never mentioned a brother. Not during twelve years of Sunday calls, not after dinners in her quiet house, not when she asked whether Charles felt lonely and he told her he was busy.

"Mother knew," he said.

Elena reached for the letter.

Price looked older than when he arrived. "That conversation is hers to have with you."

Charles nearly snapped that she had had twelve years to have it. He stopped when he saw Thomas's face.

Whatever his mother had done, this wasn't Charles's discovery alone.

"Do you want to meet her?" he asked.

Thomas rubbed a hand over his jaw.

"I don't know what I would say."

"You don't need an opening statement."

A faint, tired smile appeared. "That's unfortunate. I usually have one."

Elena lowered the letter.

"We should go together."

Charles looked at her. "Will you?"

She drew a breath.

"Yes. I'll stop making you arrange it."

After Price left, Charles called Margaret and asked whether Sunday would suit her.

She answered too quickly, then tried to disguise it by discussing lunch.

"There will be three of us," he said. "Lyla will come later with Mrs. Bell. There's something we need to talk about first."

His mother went quiet.

"Thomas," Charles said. "His name is Thomas."

Her breathing changed.

"I know," she whispered.

He looked across the room at his brother.

"Then it's time we all sat down together."