Chapter 15
Camille wrote Elena a letter after three months.
She did not ask me to deliver it.
She sent it through Tessa.
Smart.
Elena read it alone.
Then handed it to me later.
Only because she wanted me to.
One line mattered.
I kept calling you unstable because I could not tolerate the idea that you might function perfectly well without me.
That was it.
Not jealousy alone.
Not power alone.
Dependence.
Camille admitted she had turned help into evidence, kindness into leverage, concern into surveillance.
She did not ask to see Mira.
Good.
She wrote:
If she never knows me again, that is mine to carry.
Better.
Elena folded the letter.
“Do you forgive her?”
She looked at me.
“No.”
Simple.
“Will you?”
“I don’t know.”
Also simple.
I nodded.
Then Elena asked:
“Do you?”
Harder.
Camille was my wife.
Or had been in every way except final decisions.
I still loved parts of her.
That was inconvenient.
True.
“I don’t know.”
Elena nodded.
No judgment.
Healing became easier once nobody demanded clean emotional categories.
Love.
Anger.
Disgust.
Grief.
All can occupy the same room.
May you like
Mafia men pretend complexity is weakness because clear enemies are easier to manage.
Family is rarely that generous.
