THE BUTTERFLY ON THE LACE

Two months passed.

The transition of power was brutal, exhausting, and entirely liberating.

Edward pled guilty to federal fraud charges in a closed-door deal, trading a reduced sentence for the surrender of all his assets. He was sentenced to eight years in a white-collar prison.

Olivia took a plea deal for her cooperation, receiving probation. I never saw her again, but I made sure her father’s estate was quietly reimbursed.

Ellis Grand Hotels was thriving. The press loved the story of the resilient wife taking the helm.

Emma was happier than I had ever seen her. She laughed louder, walked taller, and no longer tiptoed around her father’s volatile moods.

It was a Saturday morning in late November.

I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, finally sorting through the last of my mother’s old cedar chests that we had moved from her house after she died.

I had avoided this chest because it smelled so strongly of her lavender perfume it made my heart ache.

I pulled out old photo albums, my childhood report cards, and a collection of vintage sewing patterns.

At the very bottom of the chest was a small, ornate wooden jewelry box I had never seen before.

It was locked, but the lock was flimsy.

I popped it open with a letter opener.

Inside wasn't jewelry.

It was a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon.

And resting on top of the letters was a faded, punched train ticket.

It was a ticket from Chicago to a small coastal town in Maine.

Dated August 12, 1978.

Two weeks before my parents got married.

I frowned, picking up the ticket.

My mother had always told me she and my father had a perfect, quiet courtship in Milwaukee. She had never mentioned a trip to Maine.

I untied the blue ribbon and opened the first letter.

It was written on heavy, expensive parchment paper.

My Dearest Margaret,

The house on the cliff is finally finished. The porch looks out over the ocean, just like we dreamed. I know you are afraid of the scandal, afraid of hurting him. But I am waiting for you on the 12th. Please, my love. Bring the baby. We can start over.

Yours forever,

Julian.

My breath caught in my throat.

Bring the baby.

I was born in February of 1979. I was already conceived in August of 1978.

I stared at the name at the bottom of the letter.

Julian.

My father’s name was Richard.

My hands began to tremble as I read through the rest of the letters. They were passionate, desperate, deeply emotional declarations of love from a man who clearly worshipped the ground my mother walked on.

A man who was waiting for her to run away with him.

But the train ticket was unpunched for the return trip. She never stayed. She came back and married Richard.

Why?

I reached the bottom of the box.

There was a small, velvet pouch.

I opened it.

Inside was a heavy, antique silver locket.

I popped it open.

On one side was a picture of my mother, looking young, radiant, and wildly happy.

On the other side was a picture of a handsome man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

He looked exactly like me.

My world tilted on its axis.