Chapter 10 - A Mother's Last LetterPhoebe hadn't written the letter because she expected to die.
That was important.
She had always loved writing little notes.
There were birthday cards hidden inside drawers, handwritten recipes tucked into cookbooks, and affectionate messages scribbled on the backs of photographs.
After becoming a mother, she began writing letters for Margot.
One for her first day of school.
One for her tenth birthday.
One for the day she learned to ride a bicycle.
And several simply because Phoebe wanted her daughter to have something tangible to hold when she grew older.
Emmett had preserved every one.
The pale blue envelope was different.
It was addressed to both him and Margot.
He stared at it for a long moment.
"Do you remember this?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Phoebe showed it to me once."
"What did she say?"
"That she'd written something sentimental and didn't want you teasing her."
He smiled faintly.
"That sounds like her."
Margot climbed onto his lap.
"Can you read it?"
Emmett carefully opened the envelope.
Inside were two sheets of cream-colored stationery.
Phoebe's familiar handwriting filled both pages.
He began reading aloud.
My two favorite people,
If you're reading this together, I hope you're sitting somewhere comfortable. Preferably with cookies. Arthur's cookies, not the terrible ones Emmett once tried to bake.
I laughed unexpectedly.
Emmett's eyes filled.
Margot giggled.
"Daddy makes bad cookies?"
"Apparently, Mommy thought so."
He continued.
Margot, by the time you're old enough to understand this letter, you'll probably have discovered that your father is one of the most patient, ridiculous, wonderful people in the world.
I hope he has taught you how to laugh when things go wrong. I hope Grandpa has taught you how to be brave. And I hope you've learned that love is not a prize anyone has to win.
Emmett paused.
He looked at the page.
Then he read the next paragraph more slowly.
Someday, our family might change. There may be new friends, new traditions, and new people who love us. I hope we always make room for them.
But Margot, please remember something your grandmother taught me: a heart does not need to throw away an old love to welcome a new one.
Love is not a chair at a crowded table. It is the table itself. We make it bigger.
I covered my mouth.
Eleanor.
Even after all these years, my wife had found a way to speak to us through our daughter.
Emmett continued.
To my sweet husband: never stop living just because life becomes difficult. Promise me you'll keep finding reasons to be happy.
And to our beautiful little girl: you were loved before anyone knew the color of your eyes. You were loved before your first breath. Nothing you do, nothing you become, and nothing anyone says can make you less deserving of that love.
You will never have to compete for your place in this family.
All my love, always.
Mommy.
By the time Emmett finished, he was crying.
So was I.
Margot sat quietly, her little finger tracing the final word.
"Mommy wrote that?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
"For me?"
"For you."
She thought for a moment.
Then she took the letter and pressed it gently against her chest.
"I like Mommy."
Emmett let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
"She would've liked you very much, princess."
That evening became one of the most important nights we'd shared since Phoebe's death.
We looked through photographs.
I told Margot how her mother once convinced an entire classroom that their teacher had a secret pet dinosaur.
Emmett described the day Phoebe found out she was pregnant.
He had cried so hard that she'd asked whether he was frightened.
He'd replied that he was simply overwhelmed by how lucky he felt.
Margot loved that story.
"Did Daddy cry when I was born?"
"Like a fountain," I told her.
She laughed until she nearly fell off the couch.
For the first time since the wedding, the house felt peaceful.
But peace doesn't always mean a problem has disappeared.
Sometimes, it simply gives you enough strength to face the next one.
The following week, Claire's attorney contacted Emmett's lawyer.
Claire disputed the allegation of deliberate deception and indicated she intended to contest the annulment petition.
That was her legal right.
But attached to the communication was another request.
She wanted certain wedding expenses reimbursed.
She also sought the return of personal belongings she'd left at Emmett's house during their engagement.
Those practical matters could be handled.
Then came something unexpected.
Claire requested an opportunity to speak with Margot.
Her attorney described it as an attempt to apologize and achieve emotional closure.
Emmett refused an immediate meeting.
After consulting Margot's therapist, he offered to consider a written apology that could be reviewed by adults before deciding whether it would be appropriate to share with her.
Claire rejected that proposal.
She wanted to speak directly to the child.
When Emmett maintained his boundary, Claire sent him a private message.
You don't get to erase me from her life just because you're angry.
He showed it to me.
"What do you think?"
"I think you should let your attorney handle it."
He nodded.
Then he did something I'd been hoping he would do for weeks.
He stopped checking Claire's online posts.
He stopped responding to indirect messages.
And he started focusing on rebuilding a peaceful routine for his daughter.
Every Tuesday, they attended their scheduled appointment with a child therapist named Dr. Lauren Mitchell.
Every Friday, they made homemade pizza.
Every Sunday afternoon, I came over for dinner.
Margot gradually returned to her old self.
But one particular conversation with Dr. Mitchell troubled Emmett.
Margot had apparently begun asking whether adults could disappear when children made them unhappy.
The therapist gently explained that the wedding incident appeared to have stirred up feelings connected to her mother's death.
Those feelings weren't unusual for a child processing grief.
But they deserved attention.
Emmett came home determined to reassure her consistently through his actions rather than simply repeating promises.
He adjusted his work schedule.
Started collecting her from preschool more often.
And began a new bedtime tradition.
Every night, he told Margot one thing he'd enjoyed doing with her that day.
She always told him one in return.
For a while, it seemed to help.
Then, one afternoon, the preschool director called.
A woman had appeared outside the school gates asking whether Margot Bennett was still enrolled.
The woman had not been authorized to collect her.
And when a staff member approached, she'd walked away.
The director described her carefully.
Dark hair.
Cream-colored coat.
Large sunglasses.
I knew that description.
May you like
So did Emmett.
And suddenly, our concern was no longer limited to the past.
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