Andrew recognized his own handwriting.
“Where did you get that?”
“David kept everything.”
Inside was a letter Andrew had written to Victoria’s husband while recovering from the operation.
The paper had yellowed.
Andrew read silently.
Halfway through, his face changed.
He had forgotten the last paragraph.
In it, he thanked David for getting him home and wrote that if he ever had a son, he hoped he could teach the boy one thing David had shown him: strength meant becoming useful when another person had less power, not proving how much power you had yourself.
Andrew set the letter down.
Victoria looked at him.
“You did have a son.”
“I did.”
The pain in his voice was quiet.
“You also had more than one chance to teach him,” she said.
Andrew looked up.
“You think I failed?”
Victoria considered it.
“I think children are not machines. You can build the right lesson into them and they still make their own choices. He is responsible for what he did. You are responsible for what you do now.”
Andrew nodded.
He asked whether she wanted him to give the letter to Blake.
Victoria shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Blake spent the next months in a staff position with no direct reports. He completed leadership counseling and reviewed the cafeteria footage more times than he wanted.
The hardest part was not seeing himself strike the tray.
It was watching the room.
Men he believed respected him had looked afraid.
When he asked whether anyone saw the tray strike, several lowered their eyes before one chief gave him the answer he wanted. Blake had interpreted that as loyalty.
Now it looked like coercion.
He wrote apologies to the witnesses he pressured, to Miller, and to Victoria.
