I felt the floor tilt. “How do you know this?”
“Because I knew your mother,” Margaret said. “She worked for me. Before you were born. She was my assistant. She was brilliant. She was kind. She was my best friend.”
I couldn’t speak.
“When she left, she asked me to look after you. She asked me to make sure you were okay. I tried. I sent money. I sent letters. Your father intercepted them. He didn’t want me in your life. He didn’t want anyone in your life.”
“Where is she now?”
Margaret looked at the lake. “She lives in Seattle. She’s a doctor. She has a husband. Two children. She’s happy.”
“Does she know about me?”
“She knows. She’s always known. She’s been waiting for you to find her.”
I started to cry. Margaret took my hand.
“I didn’t just hire you because you were Ryan’s wife,” she said. “I hired you because you were her daughter. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to give you what she couldn’t.”
I looked at the photograph. The young woman. The baby. My mother. Me.
“Can I meet her?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “I’ll arrange it.”
I flew to Seattle two weeks later. I stood on a porch. I knocked on a door. A woman answered. She was older now. Gray hair. Wrinkles. But her eyes were the same. Kind. Dark. Full of tears.
“Emily,” she whispered.
“Mom,” I said.
She hugged me. I hugged her back. We stood there for a long time. Crying. Laughing. Holding each other.
She told me everything. Why she left. Why she stayed away. How she had tried to find me. How Margaret had kept her updated. How she had prayed every night that I would be okay.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re here now.”
The final image: I was sitting on the porch of my apartment. The sun was setting. The lake was calm. My mother was beside me. Margaret was on the phone, planning our next dinner. Ryan was in prison. Jessica was in prison. The company was thriving. My life was mine.
I looked at the photograph of my mother and me. I had framed it. I had put it on the table beside my chair. I touched the glass. I smiled.
I was not Ryan’s wife. I was not his victim. I was not nothing.
I was Emily Vance. I was Margaret’s partner. I was my mother’s daughter.
And I was finally, truly, home.
The Name in the Envelope
