Page 73 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter fifty-six

O ut on the street, his phone rang. The voice on the other end cleared its throat.

“Daniel, this is Martin Hodgson. How are you?”

Daniel straightened instinctively. Just hearing Martin Hodgson’s voice made him feel like he should be walking with purpose, not ambling along the pavement in clothes that had needed washing two days ago.

“Fine, Martin. You?” He kept his tone brisk.

The less time spent on this call, the better.

Something about the man unsettled him—not his reputation, which was impeccable, but what that reputation implied.

The man had built a career wrangling the messiest divorces, securing generous settlements for either side with clinical efficiency.

“I’ve been looking at your books.” A pause. Another throat-clearing. Was the man drowning in catarrh?

Daniel’s neck prickled. He’d always been meticulous with Stuffed!

’s accounts, too conscious of how easily small businesses got wrecked by shoddy bookkeeping.

When Martin had requested the financial records, Daniel handed them over without hesitation.

He wanted a fair split—insisted on it, in fact.

Martin had raised an eyebrow at that, as if offended by the mere suggestion that he was the kind of lawyer people hired to bury assets.

Now, though, tension coiled in Daniel’s shoulders. Had he missed something? Was he about to hear that HMRC would be sending round a firing squad?

“Nothing wrong, is there?” His throat was suddenly dry.

“Well… ah.” Another pause. Then, as if sensing Daniel’s panic, Martin hurried on. “Oh, no, no, no, dear chap. The books are perfectly fine. It’s just—”

Another hesitation.

Daniel exhaled sharply. “Just what?”

“I found a letter stuffed in with your 2012 tax returns.”

“A letter?” Relief flooded him, loosening the knot in his spine.

“Yes. A personal letter. Dated a few weeks ago.” A beat. “It’s from your wife.”

Daniel stopped walking. “From Nell?”

Martin made a sound of confirmation. “Did you mean to put it there?”

Daniel shook his head automatically before remembering Martin couldn’t see him. “No. I never saw that letter.”

Martin harrumphed again. “Look, the contents are quite personal. I didn’t finish reading once I realised what it was. But you ought to have it. If you like, I can have it couriered to you.”

And charge me a fortune for it too.

“No, thank you. Just leave it at reception. I’ll pick it up.”

McKinlay, Hodgson & Brown’s offices were on West Regent Street.

Daniel took the quick route, cutting through George Square, crossing Buchanan Street, then trudging up the hill.

The most expensive firms sat near the top, their townhouses converted into sleek, glass-doored empires of law. Hodgson’s firm occupied two floors.

Inside, the reception area reeked of wealth—squishy red velvet armchairs, a gleaming hardwood coffee table fanned with broadsheet newspapers and glossy, upmarket magazines.

The receptionist greeted him with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. His dishevelled appearance suggested he belonged in a firm specialising in criminal law, not family, tax or estate planning.

“How may I help you?”

Daniel leaned against the desk, still catching his breath from the climb. The woman, her sleek bun and pristine makeup unshaken by his presence, drew back slightly.

“Uh… letter,” he managed between breaths. “For me. Daniel Murray. Mr Hodgson said he’d leave it.”

She lifted a brown envelope, pinching the corner between finger and thumb as though it carried some communicable disease.

Daniel snatched it and strode out without waiting for further pleasantries, throwing a quick “thanks” over his shoulder.

Out on the street, he ripped it open. Even before unfolding the paper, he recognised Nell’s handwriting—the loops and slants he could have picked out anywhere. The paper felt thick, luxurious under his fingers, a far cry from the sandwich bags and notepads he usually scribbled on.

Black ink on cream stationery. Elegant. Deliberate.

The date at the top made his breath hitch. August 15th.

Five weeks ago.

Before Nell found out about Ryan.

He pictured Nell at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, pen clenched tightly in her fingers. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she would pause now and then, lifting her gaze as if searching for the right words in the air above her. He could see it—the care, the deliberation, the love.

The ink on the page felt heavy.

Dear Danny,

I know you don’t want to see me or talk to me, but I need to explain myself, and this is the only way I can think of. I hope you’ll read this to the end.

First of all—I love you . I always have. Throughout our marriage, I have admired you, loved you, and valued you. That’s not to say there haven’t been difficulties, but most of them were things we muddled through, like every couple.

I don’t know where to start, so I’ll begin with the story I never told you.

You always knew I didn’t want children. You pushed me on it back in 2003, and like the coward I am, I didn’t tell you the real reason.

The twenty-something me couldn’t bear the thought of having a child. especially since I already —

Daniel stopped reading.

The world around him blurred into motion—people weaving past him on their way home, barely registering the man standing stock-still in the middle of the pavement, staring at the page in his hands.

God Almighty.

Did you ever really know someone at all?

His pulse pounded in his ears as he forced himself to read on.

The decision not to have children wasn’t one I made lightly.

Even though I still believe it was the right choice, there have been moments—so many moments—when I’ve imagined the child we might have had.

A boy or a girl. I picture them in my mind, wondering who they would have taken after.

Would they have been artistic like me? Or maybe they would have shared their father’s entrepreneurial streak, growing up to be part of Stuffed!

I expect these thoughts haunt you too.

I wish I had told you the truth back then. I wish I had told you before now.

There is no justification for what happened with Jamie Curtice.

I can’t excuse it. I could list the reasons I think it happened, but they wouldn’t be excuses, and I don’t expect you to understand them.

Maybe I had my midlife crisis early. We met and married so young, didn’t we?

Jamie’s attention flattered me. We’d both had too much to drink, and you were away so often back then, and that furious row had fired me up.

But none of that makes it right.

Jamie left work one week later. After that night, we never spoke again. I know that right now, you probably don’t trust a word I say, but I swear to you, Jamie Curtice was my one and only mistake.

And then I found out I was pregnant.

I was horrified. Guilt-stricken. The consultant I saw made his disapproval clear.

I felt I deserved every word, and when the miscarriage happened, it seemed like punishment.

Like nature’s way of telling me I was never meant to be a mother.

It was an incredibly lonely time. I don’t say that to make you feel sorry for me—I say it because it was awful, and I lived with it alone.

If I could go back and undo it all, I would.

Long-term relationships have their ups and downs, I know that.

But this… this isn’t a blip. It isn’t some small irritation to be worked through.

It’s huge. And I am so, so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.

The knowledge of it appals me. If there was ever any justification for keeping those two secrets, it was this—I never wanted to hurt you.

You are a good man, Danny. A fine man. An exceptional one.

There’s so much I admire about you—your drive, your work ethic, your sense of responsibility, your loyalty. I have always found you attractive, and I never stopped. Now that you’re gone, I realize how much I took you for granted. Without you, the house is too quiet. It isn’t a home anymore.

I miss you. I miss you so much.

Please come back to me.

Please.

She had signed it simply, Nell. The first stroke of the N bold and certain, the loops of the l’s tight and neat.

How had it ended up in his old tax returns?

Daniel pictured the office layout. The 2012 tax return was stored in the back room, among the files rarely touched. A stray piece of paper couldn’t have just landed there by accident. Someone must have placed it there—but why?

He pressed the letter to his chest, inhaling sharply.

Maybe the mystery didn’t matter. What mattered were the words.

He read and re-read them, standing outside McKinlay, Hodgson & Brown’s offices, then again as he walked back to Stuffed!

’s headquarters, the weight of Nell’s confession settling deeper with each step.

His phone buzzed. Trish.

He declined the call. She’d only be phoning to nag.

When he pushed open the office door, Holly barely looked up from the Stuffed!

website, typing away with her usual efficiency.

If she was surprised that he hadn’t stayed away long, she didn’t show it.

He’d tried to encourage her not to put in the same long hours he did, but she’d just shrug and say she liked being busy.

He slammed his office door behind him and exhaled, pressing his fingertips into his temples. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

His phone rang again. His mother.

He switched it off.

The light tap at the door a few minutes later was a relief, pulling him out of his jumbled thoughts. Joe stood on the other side, red-faced and flustered, fresh from the packing unit on the industrial estate, biting on his bottom lip.

“Boss,” he said, holding up a folded newspaper. “There’s something you need to see in the Scottish Post .”

Daniel took the paper, his throat tightening as Joe added, “I’m no’ sure what it means for the company, but… I dinnae think it’s good.”