He took them out one by one. 2 were from Benjamin, written during a summer when Benjamin had gone to visit relatives in another city, joking, rambling letters full of observations about people he had met and food he had eaten. He set those aside.
The last one was different.
The envelope was smaller. The handwriting on the front, just his name—Simon—was careful and neat, the letters slightly pressed into the paper as if written by someone who had thought about each one before putting it down.
He knew the handwriting.
He sat there holding the envelope for a long time. He could not have said how long. The lamp threw its small circle of light on the desk. The house was completely silent. Outside, somewhere far away, a night bird called once and then was quiet.
He opened it.
The letter was 2 pages long.
He read it slowly.
Then he read it again.
The words were simple. She had always written simply, clearly, without decoration. That had been one of the things about her. She said what she meant.
She wrote that she was leaving, that she had waited as long as she could, that she had hoped he would come back or change his mind or at least answer her calls, but that she understood now that he was not going to.
She was not angry in the letter, or if she was, she had taken that part out. She was mostly just sad in the quiet way that is worse than anger because it has given up expecting anything different.
And then, near the bottom of the first page, the words that now sat on his chest like something heavy and permanent:
I want you to know that I am keeping the baby. I know you said what you said. I know you don’t want this, but this child is not nothing to me, Simon. And I will not pretend otherwise. I’m going to raise this child alone if I have to, and I will be enough. I will make myself enough.
He turned to the second page.
I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty. I’m writing it because one day, when enough time has passed, I think the guilt will find you on its own. And when it does, I want you to know that I did not raise our child to hate you. I raised our child to be better than the fear that made you run away.
Victoria.
He set the letter down.
He sat in his chair under the small lamp in the large, silent house and did not move for a very long time.
Our child.
Not a possibility. Not a maybe. She had kept the baby. She had said it plainly: I am keeping the baby.