Chapter 18: The Email

Cora's POV

Patrick came in with my daughter in the crook of his arm and a folded paper in his other hand.

I was propped up on the pillows in a hospital gown, with an IV taped to my wrist.

I had no idea what day it was.

"She's been good," he said, and he laid her in my arms.

She was warm and heavier than she looked.

"You said you'd tell me when you were sure," I said.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He did not sit.

He held out the paper.

"Read this first. Then ask me anything."

It was a printout, soft along the folds.

The top message was from him, nine years old, to me.

Ms. Lindell, I judged your entry. It was the best thing I saw all year. I would like to fund you, no strings. Tell me what you need.

Under it was the answer.

Thank you, but my partner handles all business matters. Please don't write again.

I read both of them twice.

"I never saw this," I said.

"I know that now."

"You thought I wrote it."

"For nine years." He stood stiffly at the foot of the bed.

"I thought you looked at what I offered and chose the man at the podium beside you."

"I built a fund out of that, Cora. I built a whole life out of that."

"You didn't ask me."

"I was angry and I was proud, and I never wrote again, because the letter told me not to."

I held the baby with one arm and reached for my phone with the other.

"Cora."

"Give me a minute."

I opened my email and searched for his name.

The sent folder was old and enormous, because I never delete anything.

The message sat there, four lines long, at the bottom of a week in October, with a time stamp of 11:48 at night.

I remembered that week.

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