Chapter 13 - Victoria Finally Explained Why She Did It
The mediator asked:
“Why?”
Victoria had answers ready.
Family grief.
Jonathan’s reputation.
Catherine’s social position.
Charles’s health.
Henry’s instability.
Money.
None survived:
questions.
Finally she stopped.
“I thought Jonathan was making the biggest mistake of his life.”
There.
Simple.
“What mistake?”
Victoria looked at:
me.
“Your mother.”
My jaw tightened.
“She worked club events.”
“So?”
“She came from nothing.”
“There it is.”
Victoria looked toward:
Henry.
“Dad would have lost his mind.”
Henry answered:
“Probably.”
I looked at:
him.
He added:
“That doesn’t make Victoria right.”
Good.
Victoria continued.
“Jonathan had always been impulsive.”
“Boats.”
“Women.”
“Businesses.”
“He would fall in love with something and expect everyone else to reorganize around him.”
“Catherine became another one of those things.”
Except:
she wasn’t.
Jonathan wrote:
I want this baby.
I want you.
Victoria decided:
he didn’t mean it.
Why?
Because she knew him:
better.
Or believed she did.
Then Jonathan died.
Victoria said:
“I thought Catherine would attach herself to the family forever.”
“Through me?”
“Yes.”
“I was an unborn child.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Victoria began:
crying.
Not performative.
Still not:
my responsibility.
She continued.
“Dad had just started having heart problems.”
“Henry was furious at Jonathan.”
“Everything was falling apart.”
“I thought if Catherine disappeared, one problem would disappear with her.”
There.
Problem.
My mother.
Me.
Then:
“Did you tell Mom Henry refused her?”
“Yes.”
“Did Henry refuse?”
“No.”
“Did you send the $30,000?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To help her leave.”
“Did you believe it bought silence?”
“Yes.”
Then:
“When I was born?”
Victoria looked down.
“I thought it was too late to reopen.”
At two months:
too late.
At seventeen years:
too late.
At twenty-four:
too late.
That was how concealed truths survive.
Every additional year becomes an argument against:
truth.
Then:
“Why lie again this year?”
The room became:
quiet.
This was the most important:
question.
She could not blame grief from:
1999.
Jonathan had been dead for twenty-four:
years.
Charles gone.
Catherine gone.
I was an:
adult.
Victoria answered:
“Because by then I had spent half my life being the person who knew.”
There.
Identity.
Not only money.
“If I told Henry, I wasn’t just admitting you existed.”
“I was admitting what I had done.”
“And the trust distribution?”
“Yes.”
“Belcourt House?”
“Yes.”
“Money mattered.”
“Of course it mattered.”
At least:
honest.
Then she said:
“When I saw your name on the staffing list, I panicked.”
“You already knew I worked catering sometimes.”
“Yes.”
“You told the club to keep me away.”
“Yes.”
“Then you saw me.”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
Victoria looked at:
my face.
“That you looked like Catherine.”
Then:
“I thought if Henry saw you, he might see it too.”
There.
“Why drag me out?”
“I wanted you gone before he came through the foyer.”
“Why the service door?”
Her eyes filled.
“I said the same thing to Catherine.”
I already knew.
But hearing her say:
it
changed the room.
“What?”
“When she came looking for Henry after Jonathan died.”
“I told her if she insisted on creating a scene at the club, she could leave through the service entrance.”
There.
Twenty-four years between:
mother
and:
daughter.
Same building.
Same woman deciding:
who belonged.
Then Victoria said:
“When your pouch fell, I knew what was inside before it opened.”
I froze.
“How?”
“Catherine wore the ring once when she came to see me.”
“You recognized the pouch?”
“No.”
“I saw the shape.”
Then:
“When the ring rolled out, I knew Henry would understand everything.”
That was why she kicked:
it.
Not random contempt.
She was trying to remove the one object Jonathan had specifically told Catherine:
Henry will recognize.
May you like
And Henry had.
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