CHAPTER 2 : THE LETTER FROM THE DEAD
The hospital lobby seemed to disappear around us.
Sophie stared at her sister as though she had begun speaking another language.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
Lena’s eyes moved toward me.
“You’re Ethan.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“Then you should probably read this too.”
She held out the envelope again.
Sophie did not move.
I could see fear rising behind her eyes, but there was anger too. Whatever had happened between the sisters had never healed.
“Why would my mother write to you and not me?” Sophie asked.
“Because you stopped opening my letters.”
“You disappeared.”
“I left because you told me to.”
“You stole from Mom while she was dying.”
Lena flinched.
“That’s what you were told.”
“Don’t do this here.”
“I didn’t come to fight.”
“You always come to fight.”
People moved around us with umbrellas and coffee cups, unaware that years of buried resentment had just risen between two hospital doors.
I stepped closer to Sophie.
“Let’s go somewhere private.”
She did not look at me.
“You should leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“If my family knew something about the miscarriages, it concerns me.”
Her head snapped toward me.
“My miscarriages.”
“Our babies.”
The grief in her face was immediate.
I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth, but I could not take them back.
Lena watched us both.
“There’s a café across the street,” she said. “You can scream at me there if you want.”
Twenty minutes later, the three of us sat in a nearly empty corner booth while rain struck the windows.
The envelope lay unopened on the table.
Sophie wrapped both hands around a cup of tea but did not drink.
Lena removed her coat. She looked older than Sophie, perhaps forty, with faint lines around her eyes and a thin scar along her jaw.
“Start with the transplant office,” Sophie said. “Why did they call you?”
“Because Marjorie contacted me.”
I frowned.
My mother had not spoken to Sophie since the divorce. At least, that was what I believed.
“When?” I asked.
“Yesterday.”
“How did she get your number?”
“I don’t know. She said Sophie needed a donor, and that I was probably her best chance.”
Sophie’s expression hardened.
“My doctor wasn’t supposed to disclose anything.”
“She claimed an old family friend told her.”
“That doesn’t explain the letter,” I said.
Lena looked at Sophie.
“Mom wrote it during her final week. She asked me to protect you from the truth until you were ready.”
“My mother died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
“You kept this for nine years?”
“Yes.”
Sophie laughed once, without humor.
“You have always had a talent for deciding what I deserve to know.”
Lena’s face tightened.
“I was twenty-nine, broke, addicted to painkillers and trying to care for a dying woman who was terrified of destroying her youngest daughter’s future. I made bad decisions. Keeping this letter was one of them.”
Sophie looked away.
I stared at the envelope.
“What did my family supposedly know?”
Lena pushed it toward us.
“You should read it yourselves.”
Sophie’s hands remained around her tea.
I reached for the envelope, then stopped.
“May I?”
After several seconds, she nodded.
The paper inside had yellowed slightly. The handwriting was uneven, but I recognized the careful loops of Sophie’s mother, Margaret.
My dear girls,
There are truths I should have told you years ago. I remained silent because I believed silence could protect our family. I was wrong.
Sophie carries a genetic mutation connected to a blood disorder that has affected women in our family. The doctors discovered it when she was a child, but she showed no symptoms. They warned me that pregnancy might trigger complications.
My heart began pounding.
I kept reading.
When Sophie became engaged to Ethan, I told his mother, Marjorie, because she had medical connections and promised to help us find a specialist. Instead, Marjorie begged me not to tell Sophie or Ethan. She feared Ethan would cancel the wedding or never have biological children.
I agreed to remain silent.
I will regret that decision for the rest of my life.
The letter shook in my hand.
Sophie stared at me.
“What does it say?”
I could not speak.
She took the pages and read.
Her face changed line by line.
The disorder may increase the risk of miscarriage and can develop into serious bone marrow disease. Sophie must receive regular blood testing, especially if she becomes pregnant.
She never knew because I hid the reports.
Marjorie knew because I sent her copies.
Sophie stopped reading.
The café grew painfully quiet.
“My mother knew,” she whispered.
Lena nodded.
“And yours,” she said to me.
I felt sick.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother would never—”
“Would never lie?” Sophie asked.
Her voice was cold.
I looked at her.
She folded the letter carefully, but her hands trembled.
“She watched us lose two babies.”
“Sophie—”
“She came to the hospital after both miscarriages. She held my hand. She told me these things happened for reasons we could not understand.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No. You didn’t.”
The accusation was not that I had known.
It was that I had failed to see.
Lena reached across the table.
“Sophie, Mom was afraid. That doesn’t excuse what she did.”
Sophie pulled away.
“You knew about the disorder?”
“Not until Mom’s final week.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I tried to contact you.”
“You sent birthday cards.”
“I sent eleven letters.”
“I never received eleven letters.”
Lena looked at me.
“Were you living in the apartment on North Ashland then?”
“Yes.”
“I mailed everything there.”
A memory surfaced.
My mother visiting frequently after our wedding. Bringing food. Collecting our mail when we traveled. Insisting she was only trying to help.
I did not want to believe the thought forming in my mind.
“You think Marjorie intercepted them?” Lena asked.
“I don’t know.”
But I did know something.
After our second miscarriage, Sophie had received a call from a medical office. My mother had answered because Sophie was asleep. She later told us the call concerned a billing error.
I had never questioned her.
Sophie stood suddenly.
“I need air.”
She made it two steps before her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
Her body felt frighteningly light in my arms.
“Sophie!”
Her eyes fluttered but did not open.
Lena shouted for help.
An ambulance was called even though the hospital stood across the street. Within minutes, Sophie was back inside, surrounded by nurses.
I followed until a nurse blocked the treatment-room door.
“You need to wait here.”
“She has leukemia.”
“We know. Please let us work.”
The doors closed.
Lena stood beside me, pale and shaken.
“This is what I was afraid of,” she whispered.
“What?”
“That the truth would come too late.”
I turned on her.
“Are you going to be tested as a donor?”
She looked toward the closed doors.
“I came here for the test.”
Relief struck me so hard that I nearly collapsed.
“Then there’s still a chance.”
Lena’s expression remained grim.
“You need to understand something. Sophie and I have different fathers.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Our mother never told Sophie. I found out after she died.”
“So you might not be as strong a match.”
“I might not match at all.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang.
My mother’s name appeared on the screen.
I answered immediately.
“What did you do?”
There was silence.
Then Marjorie spoke in the soft, controlled voice she always used when she believed she was right.
“Ethan, I was trying to protect you.”
“Did you know Sophie had a blood disorder?”
Another silence.
That was enough.
My stomach turned.
“You knew.”
“I knew there was a possibility.”
“You let her get pregnant.”
“She wanted children.”
“You watched her lose them!”
“Lower your voice.”
“I’m in a hospital hallway, and Sophie is behind those doors fighting for her life!”
My mother inhaled sharply.
“I never wanted this.”
“But you knew it could happen.”
“I thought Margaret was exaggerating. And after she died, I believed the risk was gone.”
“The risk was inside Sophie!”
Lena watched me, arms folded across her chest.
My mother began crying.
“Please come to my house. There are things you don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“No, Ethan. You don’t.”
“What else is there?”
Her answer was barely a whisper.
“The genetic reports weren’t the only records I kept from you.”
A doctor pushed through the treatment-room doors before I could ask another question.
His expression was urgent.
“Sophie’s blood pressure has dropped,” he said. “We’re moving her to intensive care.”
I ended the call.
The doctor looked from Lena to me.
“We also need to discuss an emergency decision. Sophie signed a medical directive after the divorce.”
I swallowed.
“Who did she name?”
May you like
He studied me for a moment.
“Not you.”
