Chapter 6 - Victoria Had Loved Jack Once
The story would have been easier if Victoria had never loved her son.
She had.
There were photographs.
Not publicity photographs.
Ordinary ones.
Victoria asleep on a sofa with infant Jack on her chest.
Jack at two sitting on her shoulders at a county fair.
Victoria holding his hands while he learned to skate.
Michael had saved them.
When Jack was little, Victoria loved him fiercely.
Then her marriage deteriorated.
Then parenting became another field where she felt judged.
Michael thought she traveled too much.
Victoria thought Michael used Jack to punish her career ambitions.
Some of both may have been true.
Then custody became adversarial.
Victoria began measuring every interaction by whether Michael could use it against her.
Missed weekend.
Late pickup.
Wrong school decision.
Eventually she became tired of fighting.
Then she made a catastrophic emotional bargain.
If Michael wanted to be the primary parent so badly, he could have:
it.
She told herself Jack was young.
He would adjust.
She would rebuild contact later.
Later became:
after the next quarter.
After the company stabilized.
After Michael stopped being hostile.
After Jack was old enough to understand.
Then Jack turned seven.
Nine.
Eleven.
Thirteen.
With every year, returning became harder because returning required explaining the absence.
So Victoria did what people sometimes do with shame.
She converted it into principle.
“Michael provides more stability.”
“Jack has his life.”
“Disrupting him now would be selfish.”
Some of that sounded responsible.
It also allowed Victoria to avoid the question:
What does Jack want?
Michael wrote to her repeatedly.
Not constantly.
Once or twice a year.
School photograph.
Report card.
Baseball schedule.
One letter when Jack was ten said:
He asked whether you stopped visiting because he did something. I told him no. I need you to tell him too.
Victoria did not answer.
Why?
She told herself one call would not repair years.
True.
Then used the impossibility of total repair to justify doing:
nothing.
After Michael died, an envelope was found in his desk addressed to Jack.
Dana gave it to him two weeks later.
Jack had brought it to the gala.
He did not intend to show Victoria.
Eventually he did.
Michael had written:
Your mother and I failed each other in ways you were too young to understand. Do not turn my anger at her into your identity. If something happens to me, she should be told. Whether she shows up is her decision, and whatever she decides will not be proof of your worth.
Victoria read the paragraph twice.
Then reached the final lines.
Victoria, if you ever read this, do not let pride make Jack an orphan with a living mother.
She put the letter down.
Jack watched her.
“You read it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“No. Dad sent you a copy before he died.”
Victoria looked up.
That was the next truth.
Michael had mailed the same letter to her six months before his death.
Certified.
Victoria’s assistant signed for it.
Victoria never opened it.
It had sat in her home office until her staff eventually archived the unopened envelope with old legal correspondence.
She had not known what the letter said.
She had known Michael was trying to say something.
And she decided not to hear:
May you like
it.
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