“Charlotte Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Don Faulkner. I was Annette’s lawyer. I am sorry for your loss. Annette was truly one of my favorite clients.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and wait, unsure what to say. Though he might mean every word of the pleasantries, I can’t bring myself to care about how she was his favorite client. Not when she was my Nan.
“Anyway. I am here to deliver something on her behalf. The official reading of her will won’t be until after the funeral, but she asked me to deliver this as soon as possible after her passing.”
From the inside of his jacket, he pulls an ivory envelope and then holds it out to me. Nan knew this day would come, and for some reason that only adds bulk to the knot threatening to suffocate me. The envelope is crisp, my full name written in Nan’s decorative scrawl.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Please let me know if there is anything else you might need.”
Henrietta walks him to the door and I make my way back into the bedroom. Sinking onto the floral quilt, I hold the paper rectangle. This letter was written by Nan and might very well be the last piece of her left. With trembling fingers, I break the seal and unfold the two page, handwritten note:
My Dearest Lottie,
If you’re reading this, that means I’ve gone and done the damn thing—moved on as they call it. I hope it was peaceful, no sense causing a hullabaloo for little old me. Don’t be too sad and don’t you dare let them have a viewing at my funeral. No one needs to see that. Lay me to rest under that big maple in the church cemetery and then go celebrate. Raise a toast and dance with Kara to our favorite songs and let Henrietta come too, so she isn’t stuck thinking about my empty chair for too long.
Now, for the important things. First, I want you to know that day you were slouched outside my door, locked out on your own and hungry, might have been the worst of your life, but it was the best of mine. Welcoming you into my home and into my life is one of the only decisions I’ve never regretted or thought twice about. Your infectious laugh and fierce determination have brought me the kind of joy people dream about finding. It has been an honor to be a part of your life and watch the sort of woman you’ve grown into.
Second, and this is going to come across a little brusque, but it’s time someone said it. People leave, Lottie. Not all of them, and most of the time not allat once. But the simple fact of life is that nothing is constant.
The pain you’ve carried with you since your parents—the old wounds that were ripped open again when that shit-for-brains tattoo artist couldn’t see past his own ego—you don’t need them anymore. You’ve learned what you needed to from each of those experiences, and it’s time to let it go. Not everyone sets out to hurt you, and holding their own flaws against them hasn’t done anything but continue to let that hurt fester.
I’ve never spared you my thoughts or shied away from telling what I think. But I know if there is one thing I’ve failed to do, it’s teach you that opening up to the hurt and letting people see the darker parts of you is part of the journey. It’s how we grow and how we find love. Don’t you dare let your past stop you from building a beautiful future. If I’d done that all those years ago, we both would have missed out on what I believe is the single best relationship I’ve ever had the pleasure of cultivating. (Don’t tell Henrietta.)
Finally, with one more bit of information, I bring this letter to a close. You know I nevermarried, nor did I ever birth a child. But I worked hard, and spent my time living simply. There’s some money tucked away for you, and you can find it at Central Bank, downtown. Go see Rob Dryer and he’ll make sure all the appropriate paperwork is signed.
Live your life, Lottie. Whatever it looks like, and with whoever brings you the sort of joy you brought me. Stop living in the past and stop keeping yourself from the kind of happiness you deserve. Stubbornness for the sheer sake of it isn’t the virtue you think it is.
I love you Charlotte Wren. Now stop crying and go do something amazing.
Until we meet again,
Nan
I read it again and then once more, laughing and crying; soaking in the pieces of her she’s left behind. The words wrap around me like one of her warmest hugs, and sitting here on her quilt, there’s a palpable shift from directionless grief towards the path of healing. It won’t happen overnight, or even over the next year, but Nan’s last words carry the weight I need to tether myself—a beacon to help me find my way. I remember the chat we had on the sidewalk outside my house the day I returned home from California. When she’d pushed me towards Noah.
The letter is dated for a month before I met him. Before all of this came crashing down. There was no way she could have predicted what happened the night she died—none of us could have. But at least two months before she left me, she began the work of trying to help me heal.
I read over the last paragraph of her letter, a harsh reality crashing down. Reviving her old diner was never the kind of life she wanted for me. If it was, she wouldn’t have given it up. Instead, she moved on and encouraged me to do the same, cheered me on in whatever got me excited.
Kara pops her head into the doorway. “You okay?”
“No. Not in the slightest.” A warped laugh cracks out. “But I think I will be.”
The funeral is simple, just as Nan wanted it to be. The sun is shining and the air is warm with the promise of a long hot summer. The few of us here are gathered under the shade of the big maple in the church’s cemetery—around the plot Nan picked out a few years ago. Kara stands at my side, hugging my arm, her head laid on my shoulder as Nan’s pastor reads a selection of bible verses.
Henrietta is across from us, the rest of the bingo group fanning out from her—even Bud the card shark is here, dressed in a wrinkled suit, and dabbing his nose with a tissue. My chest cracks a little more when they lower the casket, and again when it’s my turn to toss a handful of dirt, the hollow sound echoing the hollow ache in my chest.
We’re headed to the reception, hosted by Henrietta at the funeral home, when Kara finally breaks her silence. “What happened with Noah?”
I turn in my seat, taken aback by her timing.
“Henrietta told me you two fought at the party.” She casts me a glance, her face sheepish when she notes my raised brows. “I’m sorry. When he didn’t come to the hospital, and then when he didn’t come around with everything happening, I got curious. And then you had me block his number. I didn’t read all of them, but his last few messages—all apologies by the way—made it almost impossible not to ask.”
