Richard had personally approved her application.
He had arranged her flight.
And he had knowingly assigned her the same seat as Arthur.
There was a reason.
She just did not know what it was yet.
At 5:30 p.m., Arthur, Emily, Daniel, and Susan gathered in a small conference room.
Susan had managed to locate Linda, the former personal assistant.
She was now retired and living in Connecticut.
After receiving a call from Daniel, she had agreed to meet Arthur the following morning.
Arthur looked at the photograph Emily had brought.
It showed Margaret standing beside Eleanor.
Both women were smiling.
He traced the edge of the picture with his finger.
“Your mother looked so much like Eleanor.”
Emily smiled.
“She used to say the same thing.”
Arthur looked up.
“Did she ever tell you why she changed her surname?”
Emily nodded.
“After she married my father, she started using Parker professionally. Her birth name was Collins.”
Daniel looked up sharply.
Arthur turned toward him.
“What is it?”
Daniel pointed at the old photograph.
“The woman I identified earlier as Margaret Collins was your daughter. Her birth name was Margaret Collins before she took the Bennett family name, and later Parker after her marriage.”
Emily nodded.
“That makes sense.”
Arthur looked at the photograph again.
He remembered the young woman who had once stood in his office and told him that family was more important than money.
He remembered how angry he had been.
He remembered the final argument.
And he remembered the door closing behind her.
“I should have followed her,” he whispered.
Emily took his hand.
“You didn't know what was happening.”
“Perhaps.”
He looked at her.
“But I should have tried harder.”
Emily did not argue.
Some wounds could not be repaired by explaining them.
They could only be acknowledged.
That evening, Arthur asked Emily whether she would accompany him to her mother's old apartment.
She agreed.
The apartment was small and modest, with pale walls and wooden furniture.
Arthur looked around quietly.
He noticed a piano near the living room window.
“Your mother still played?”
“Whenever she had time.”
Arthur touched the piano keys.
A soft, imperfect note filled the room.
He smiled sadly.
“She used to play the same song every Christmas.”
Emily walked toward the bedroom.
“I'll get the wooden box.”
She returned a few minutes later carrying a small box with brass hinges.
Arthur recognized it immediately.
Eleanor had given it to Margaret on her eighteenth birthday.
Emily placed it on the coffee table.
“It's been here since I was little.”
Arthur gently opened the lid.
Inside were photographs, greeting cards, folded letters, and several small objects.
There was a birthday ribbon.
A silver necklace.
A child's drawing.
And beneath everything else, a stack of unopened envelopes.
Arthur reached for the first one.
His own handwriting was on the front.
To my daughter, Margaret.
The envelope had never been opened.
He picked up another.
Then another.
There were twenty-three letters in total.
Each one had been returned to the sender's office without ever reaching Margaret.
Arthur stared at them.
Emily began to cry.
“My mother kept them?”
Arthur nodded.
“She must have found them somewhere.”
He opened the first letter.
It was dated twelve years earlier.
My dearest Margaret,
I don't know whether you will read this. I don't know whether you want to hear from me. But I want you to know that I am sorry for the things I said.
Your mother would never forgive me if I allowed our family to disappear because of my pride.
I miss you.
I miss the sound of your voice.
I miss my little granddaughter, even though I barely know what she looks like now.
Please call me.
Love, Dad.
Arthur stopped reading.
Emily sat beside him.
“Grandpa?”
He looked at her.
“Your mother kept every letter.”
Emily touched the envelope.
“She must have known you were trying.”
Arthur nodded.
Then he found another envelope.
This one was different.
It was addressed to Eleanor.
It had been written shortly before her death.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a single page.
My love,
I failed our daughter.
I failed our granddaughter.
I allowed the wrong people to stand between us, and now I fear I may never have the chance to make things right.
If there is any way for me to reach them, I will find it.
I promise.
Arthur pressed the letter against his chest.
For several minutes, he said nothing.
Emily sat beside him and held his hand.
Neither of them tried to fill the silence.
Outside, rain began falling against the window.
And for the first time in twelve years, Arthur was surrounded by the things he had thought were lost forever.
Arthur spent most of the night sitting beside the small wooden box.
The rain continued outside Margaret's apartment, tapping gently against the windows. Emily had prepared coffee, but neither of them had touched much of it.
The twenty-three letters lay across the coffee table.
Arthur had read every one.
Some were short. Others were several pages long. A few contained photographs he had enclosed over the years, including pictures of Eleanor, the company, and the garden where Margaret had grown up.
In one letter, he had written about Emily's fifth birthday, even though he had never been allowed to attend it.