Chapter 8 - The Letters
The first letter was dated twenty-three years earlier.
Angelo,
You were right about the building on Hicks. The roof is worse than the inspector said, but the foundation is solid. If we fix it properly instead of cheaply, families might actually want to stay there.
My father’s voice seemed to rise from the paper.
Practical.
Dry.
Hopeful.
We read slowly.
The story emerged piece by piece.
Angelo Moretti had known my father before Michael inherited the family businesses, before I understood words like mortgage or partnership.
They had met when Daniel repaired a set of antique cabinets in one of Angelo’s restaurants.
Angelo admired his work.
Daniel admired nothing about Angelo except his ability to recognize a good building before anyone else did.
Somehow, they became friends.
Then business partners.
They bought neglected properties, repaired them, rented apartments at reasonable rates, and sold when the right opportunity came.
Not glamorous.
Not secret criminal dealings.
Just buildings.
Work.
Risk.
Arguments about plumbing.
Arguments about contractors.
Arguments about whether original moldings should be saved.
I smiled through tears at one letter.
“What?”
Michael asked.
I handed it to him.
Angelo, if you replace those oak doors with hollow modern garbage, I will personally remove your name from the partnership.
Michael read it.
Then laughed.
“My father hated those doors.”
“My father apparently loved them enough to threaten legal action.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“What does?”
“You.”
I stared at him.
He looked almost surprised by his own comment.
Then he returned to the letters.
The humor faded when we reached the final years.
My father had become ill.
Not severely at first.
Enough to worry.
Enough to begin planning.
One letter mentioned Regina.
I stopped.
Michael noticed.
“You don’t have to read it now.”
“Yes, I do.”
I unfolded the page.
Angelo,
Regina is angry about the trust.
She thinks Aurora should receive cash now instead of an ownership interest later. I understand why. Money looks simple on paper. A building is responsibility.
But Aurora is nineteen. She sees the best in people. I hope she never loses that, though I also hope she learns caution.
The waterfront property will be worth something one day. More importantly, it can give her choices.
I don’t want my daughter staying anywhere because she cannot afford to leave.
My vision blurred.
I lowered the letter.
Michael said nothing.
That helped more than comfort would have.
I read the sentence again.
I don’t want my daughter staying anywhere because she cannot afford to leave.
For years, Regina had told me my father left the property arrangements to her because he worried I was irresponsible.
The truth was almost the opposite.
He wanted me independent.
He had tried to protect choices he knew I might someday need.
I pressed my fingers to my eyes.
“He knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Not about Regina exactly. I don’t think she was like this then. But he knew me.”
Michael’s voice was quiet.
“Yes.”
I laughed once, painfully.
“I spent eight years thinking he didn’t trust me.”
Michael looked toward the window.
“My father and I stopped speaking properly during his last year.”
I turned to him.
“You lived together?”
“No. We argued.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
There was no drama in the answer.
Only regret.
“I wanted him to retire. He thought I wanted control. He wanted me to run the companies exactly as he had. I wanted to change things.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Was he angry?”
“Very.”
“Were you?”
“Very.”
He smiled without humor.
“We were excellent at being angry in the same room.”
I glanced at the letters.
“Maybe he wrote about you.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
We found the first mention ten minutes later.
Daniel,
Michael thinks I don’t understand the world anymore.
Perhaps that is what sons are supposed to think before they become fathers themselves.
He wants cleaner businesses, fewer favors owed, fewer men hanging around pretending tradition is a strategy.
He may be right.
Do not tell him I said that.
I handed the page over.
Michael read it twice.
His expression did not change.
But his thumb stayed against the edge of the paper long after he finished.
“He never told you?”
“No.”
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.”
May you like
The answer came immediately.
That single word carried years inside it.
