attorney paused.
“He wrote a letter for you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“Do you want it?”
I thought.
Not whether Alessandro would want me to read it.
Not whether Victoria.
Not whether Mia someday.
Me.
“Yes.”
The letter arrived that afternoon.
Elena,
I don’t know what I’m allowed to apologize for without making the apology sound like a request.
So I’ll keep it simple.
I left.
You were pregnant.
That was wrong.
I was ashamed of losing the job, scared of becoming like my father, and convinced you would be better without another person to support.
Those were explanations I used to make cowardice sound thoughtful.
You deserved better.
Mia did too.
I have been sober for fourteen months.
I have steady work.
I am in counseling.
None of that means you owe me access to either of you.
I want to complete the paternity process because the
