Chapter 17 - THE LETTER FROM BLAKE
Blake wrote me from prison.
Three pages.
Handwritten.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I gave it to Maya.
“Read it.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No.”
She called the next day.
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Not because he deserves an audience.”
“Then?”
“Because he admits something.”
I read it in my office.
Most was predictable.
Self-justification.
He claimed Northlake exploited him.
Claimed Dad was greedy.
Claimed Marissa knew more than she admitted.
Claimed prosecutors exaggerated his conduct.
Then near the end:
I chose Marissa because your father told me she was the person most likely to make you compromise.
I stopped.
Not because it surprised me.
Because seeing it written felt final.
At first I thought she was simply useful. Then I cared about her. That complicated everything.
Maybe true.
Maybe manipulation.
I kept reading.
You think I failed because you were stronger than I expected. That isn’t exactly right. I failed because Marissa eventually stopped needing to beat you.
I read that twice.
Then once more.
For all Blake’s lies, that sentence was true.
Our family system depended on competition.
Once Marissa stepped out of it, the mechanism failed.
Blake ended with:
If Robert had been your son instead of your father, you would have understood him better.
That was nonsense.
Then:
You and I are more alike than you want to admit.
Classic.
People who exploit systems love comparing themselves to people who build them.
I shredded the letter.
Not dramatically.
Office shredder.
Ten seconds.
Done.
When I told Marissa about it, she became quiet.
“He said he cared about me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would it matter?”
I asked.
She thought.
“No.”
Good answer.
That evening Owen came over.
He had been to my house before.
But this was the first time I showed him the west lawn.
He stood where the wedding ceremony would have been.
“This is beautiful.”
“Dangerous words.”
He knew the story.
“Sorry.”
We walked toward the river.
After a while he said:
“I need to tell you something.”
My stomach tightened.
Apparently trauma makes even ordinary sentences suspicious.
“What?”
“I was offered a project in London.”
“For how long?”
“Eighteen months.”
I nodded.
“Congratulations.”
“That’s not the whole thing.”
Of course.
“They want me to relocate.”
I stared at the water.
“When?”
“January.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the project.”
Simple.
I respected that.
“And us?”
“I don’t know.”
More honesty.
Painful.
Useful.
I almost did what I had always done.
Solve.
Calculate flights.
Remote schedule.
Compromise.
Absorb.
Instead, I said:
“I don’t know either.”
Owen looked surprised.
Not disappointed.
Relieved.
We sat with uncertainty.
Nobody fixed it.
That was new for me.
Two weeks later, we decided to try long distance.
Not forever.
Six months.
Then reconsider.
May you like
Boundaries can protect relationships too.
Not just end them.
