Chapter 1
"Ms. Harrington, Mr. Grant's flight is confirmed. He'll land at 8:30 tomorrow morning," Frank Quinn, my assistant of fifteen years, said as he pushed the door open.
I was watering the orchids on the balcony when he came in.
The water was a bit cold for December.
"Got it," I replied, not turning around.
"He's bringing Ms. Woods and their three kids with him," Frank added.
My hand froze above the flowerpot.
Twenty-five years.
I set the watering can down and wiped the water off my hands.
A month ago, I had someone send a letter to his company in Hudson Portus: "Edward, everything's fine here. My old illness has come back, and honestly, I'm not doing so well. I might not have much time left. If you can, come home for a visit. —Evelyn."
I put real thought into that letter. The illness part was true; the rest well, it wasn't a total lie. I just made it sound worse than it really was.
I know how Edward is. If I hadn't told him I might not have much time left, coming home wouldn't have even crossed his mind.
There was a sandalwood box on the table.
I walked over and opened it. Inside were two things: a divorce certificate from three years ago, and a divorce agreement that was still waiting for his signature.
"Ms. Harrington, do you need a car tomorrow?" Frank asked, still standing by the door with his tablet glowing in his hand.
"Arrange one. I'm going to The Grant Manor," I said.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I've waited twenty-five years. What's one more day?" I replied.
Frank nodded and turned to leave.
Less than ten minutes after he left, the doorbell rang.
It was my daughter, Anna Grant.
Anna came in, carrying a box of white fungus sweet soup, her husband Michael Sinclair right behind her.
"Mom," Anna said, setting the soup down on the table. She paused when she saw the open sandalwood box.
"He's coming tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"I'm going too," Anna said.
"You don't have to," I replied.
"Mom!" Anna protested.
"Anna," I said, looking at her, "I've had three years to think about what I need to say and do. You don't have to shield me."
Anna stood there, her lips pressed into a thin line.
She was twenty-six now, the same age I was when I watched her father walk out the door.
But she was way tougher than I ever was back then.
"Mom, he's not worth another second of your time," Anna said, her voice firm.
"This isn't about him," I replied, closing the sandalwood box. "It's about me. After twenty-five years, it's finally time to move on."
Michael had been quiet the whole time. Just before he left, he finally spoke up. "Mom, whatever happens tomorrow, if you need anything at home, just let us know."
"Okay," I replied.
After the door closed, I was the only one left in the house.
Outside the window, I could see the old apartment buildings in Southside. Someone was walking their dog downstairs, and kids were running around.
Two bedrooms, eighty square meters. Ten thousand dollars a square meter.
I'd been living here for three years.
It wasn't that I couldn't afford a nicer place.
I just got tired of living in a big house.
I spent twenty-two years alone in that three-story Grant Manor. Every night, after turning off the lights, the echo of my footsteps in those empty halls was three times louder.
I didn't want to hear that anymore.
After my shower, I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I rarely dwelled on the memories from twenty-five years ago, but tonight, they just wouldn't leave me alone.
Back then, I was twenty-six, and Anna had just turned one. She couldn't even say "Mom" yet.
Edward said the company was expanding overseas, and he had to handle it himself.
I said okay.
The morning he left, his assistant, Vivian Woods, showed up to help with the luggage.
At twenty-one, she was five years younger than me—fresh-faced in a pale blue dress, arms full of paperwork, flashing me a confident smile.
"Mrs. Grant, I'll be taking care of things overseas for Mr. Grant. You can rest easy," Vivian said.
Not a word left my lips.
I kept all my questions to myself.
Then, year after year, things just kept happening. By the third year, word got back that Vivian had a son. By the fifth, another. And by the eighth, a daughter.
Every month, he wired thirty three thousand dollars to the family. And every New Year, he'd send a message: "Evelyn, I'm swamped this year. Can't make it home. Take care of yourself."
I'd reply: "Got it. You too."
That was it. One message, one reply, and another year slipped by.
Twenty-five years of this back-and-forth, and looking back, every message just felt like déjà vu—same old thing, year after year.
Eventually, I stopped replying. He stopped even talking about coming home.
Until a month ago, when I finally reached out and sent that letter.