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Emma blinked. "That's it? You're not going to yell at me?"

"I don't see the benefit in yelling," Victoria answered. "You apologized. I accept it."

Emma let out a breath, though the anxiety didn't completely leave her eyes. Victoria’s quietness seemed to unnerve her. People like Emma expected conflict. They expected fireworks and slammed doors. The quiet, contained retreat was something Emma didn't know how to navigate.

"Okay," Emma murmured. She picked up her glass. "This is the dry cider from Whitmore's orchard. It's supposedly their best batch in five years."

Victoria picked up her own glass, taking a sip. It was tart, the apple flavor cutting sharply across her tongue before finishing with a clean, dry note. She nodded. "It's good."

"Right. Let me write that down." Emma grabbed her pen, scribbling a quick note.

For the next twenty minutes, they moved through the tasting in stilted silence. Emma poured, Victoria tasted. Emma tried desperately to fill the quiet with trivial information. She talked about Mr. Whitmore’s aggressive pruning techniques, the soil quality in Rosebrook, and a rumor about the local mechanic stealing tractor parts.

Victoria listened, nodding occasionally, but she couldn't match the energy. Her chest still felt tight. Every time she looked at Emma, she heard the echo of the café. You never gave a shit about him.

Emma opened the third bottle, pouring a cloudy liquid into the glasses. "This one is unfiltered. They leave the sediment in. Some people love it, some people think it looks like swamp water. Mr. Caldwell swears it cures arthritis, but he also thinks the moon landing was staged, so take that with a grain of salt."

Emma laughed nervously, taking a sip. She looked at Victoria, desperate for a reaction, a smile, a sarcastic remark. Anything to prove the bridge between them hadn't been fully burned.

"I never got them," Victoria said.

The kitchen went dead silent.

Emma lowered her glass, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

Victoria kept her eyes fixed on the table. She didn't want to look at Emma's face. If she saw pity, she knew she would shut down entirely.

"The letters," Victoria clarified, her voice barely louder than a breath. "I never got them."

Emma's glass hovered an inch above the wood. She didn't speak right away, she didn't know what to say. She waited, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the air.

Victoria let her hand drop from the glass, resting it flat on the counter. "My stepfather, Harrison. He intercepted every single one. Sent them straight back here." She swallowed, looking down at the marble. "He told me Joe died when I was fourteen, right after my mum died. I didn't know he was alive until a lawyer called me a few weeks ago about the will."

Emma let out a sharp gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Victoria... oh my God."

"I found the box in the study," Victoria continued, keeping her voice incredibly even despite the tightness in her throat. "Joe kept all of them. Forty-two envelopes, every one of them stamped and returned unopened from New York. He tried to reach me for twenty years, and Harrison made sure I never knew."

"He told you he was dead?" Emma whispered, her voice trembling. "Why would he do that? Who does something like that to a kid?"

"Someone who needed to make sure I had nowhere else to turn," Victoria said simply, finally looking up.

Emma looked devastated. All the defensive anger from the previous afternoon was gone, replaced by a crushing realization. She stared at Victoria as if she were seeing her for the very first time.

"I am so sorry," Emma whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I said such awful things to you. I had no idea."

"You couldn't have known," Victoria said gently. "I didn't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Victoria paused, searching for the truth. "Because exposing a humiliation like that is difficult. And you were already convinced I didn't care. It felt easier to let you believe it."

Emma reached across the marble island. She didn't hesitate this time. She placed her hand directly over Victoria’s, her palm warm and grounding. She squeezed Victoria’s fingers, a silent, desperate apology radiating from the contact.

Victoria didn't pull away. She looked at their hands, feeling a vital piece of the tension in her chest finally release. They sat like that for a long minute, the house settling quietly around them. Victoria looked back up at Emma, noting the exhaustion lingering around her eyes. The story about Emma's mother leaving her on the pavement flashed in her mind.

"I'm sorry about your mom," Victoria said softly.

Emma blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. A small, sad smile touched the corner of her mouth. She ran her thumb gently over Victoria’s hand. "Thanks. It was a long time ago. I survived."