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Her experiences had shaped her, just like mine had shaped me. But her identity, her values, the essence of who she was? That had stayed the same. And I knew herlike I knew the land, like I knew the rhythm of a horse beneath me. Like I knew my own damn name.
“What did he say to you in the letter?” I asked.
She drew a pattern on the back of my hand. “He didn’t want you to know.” And then, as if realizing that she was touching me, she pulled away.
“He’s dead, Elena, he doesn’t give two shits what you do.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed gently and added in warning, “And don’t make shit up because you think it’ll hurt me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wasn’t planning to.”
“Tell me,” I urged.
She puffed out air between pursed lips. “I burned the letter just like Nash asked, but I get it that you want to know your father’s last words to me.”
I listened as she told me how Nash had apologized to her in the letter. How he’d known he’d treated her like shit and that he hadn’t left her anything because he couldn’t—not with Gloria watching, not with me in charge. She told me that Nash knew why she stayed, that Maria had tethered her to him, and that he had known he would fall apart without someone to keep him together.
“He called me his guardian angel,” she whispered. “Said he was never mine, though.”
I breathed out slowly. “Jesus.”
She was crying, and I couldn’t stand it. I wiped her tears.
“He said he was proud of me even when he didn’t say it. Especially then.”
I said nothing but softened my touch and cupped her cold cheek, wanting both to warm and comfort her.
“He said he was unfair to me, and he was sorry about that.”
I was sorry, too, because I had treated this wonderful, caring, loving woman worse than she ever deserved.
She sniffled, and I felt a slight hesitation from her.
“What?”
She bit her lower lip. “He said if you knew he loved me like a daughter, you wouldn’t forgive him. And he wanted you back, even after he was gone.”
The silence between us pulled tight, stretched thin like a wire about to snap.
I dropped my hands from touching her, hating myself.
She reached over, resting her palms on my heart. Then, she looked at me, her brown eyes full of kindness and love.
“I would’ve forgiven him,” I said hoarsely.
She nodded. “I know.”
“I held on to my anger for so long.”
“You were young.”
“Not young anymore, just plain stupid,” I muttered. “Mama fed me lies, and I was too damn stubborn to question them. And even when I did, even when I had moments where I thought about reaching out to Nash, I let my pride stop me.”
“You’re here now.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah, but it’s too late.”
She was quiet for a moment, then tilted her head, considering me. “You want to visit him?”
I frowned. “What?” Did she mean to go all the way to the family plot?