Page 79 of Melancholia

When I turn to look at Amir, I am unsurprised to find his smile dazzling. Dressed in his usual business casual, he looks every bit the seasoned professional as he reaches out to grip the attorney’s hand. “Khalil,” he introduces. “Amir Khalil.”

“Mr. Khalil. Glad to have you with us.” Another pained smile, and more shuffling of folders. “Let’s get right to it then, shall we?” Without more preamble, he hands me a letter addressed in handwriting I don’t recognize.

Is it Dad’s?

My hands don’t tremble, somehow. But it takes me an embarrassingly long time to tug open the envelope and unfold the paper inside. Thankfully, since his handwriting is apparently shittier than mine, the letter was typed, with only my name signed in his handwriting at the top, and his at the bottom. Amir’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I finally stop avoiding the first line, though I have to take a break before I can make myself read what was written for me.

Nell,

While I want to say I hope this letter finds you well, I’m familiar enough with the last eight years of your life to know that might not be the case. I’m so sorry to do this to you. But there are a few things I want to say, since it seems we’ll never get the chance to meet again. First off, and most importantly, I’m sorry. But you have to understand. I couldn’t move past your sister’s death, and then when your mother got sick as well, I just couldn’t take it anymore.

I shouldn’t have left you. And I shouldn’t have refused your letters. All I can do is hope for you to find some peace in your life and the love you deserve. But I couldn’t do this without reaching out to make my amends. If for some reason you ever blamed yourself for Elaina’s death because of what your mother would say to you, I hope you know it was never your fault.

I love you. And I’m so, so sorry.

Dad.

I read the letter twice, going over it like I’m searching for a secret passphrase. Every word filters through my skull, each one hurting a little more than the last.

Then, without warning, I laugh. A long, high-pitched giggle that turns into an actual laugh, and I toss the letter onto the desk before covering my mouth and sitting back in my chair. Mr. Waters looks at me like I might be losing it, but I don’t stop. Even when Amir wraps grips my shoulders like he thinks I need to be grounded from having a psychotic break.

“He-he’s sorry?” I gasp, unable to stop myself from continuing to snicker. “He’s sorry? Says he knows what I went through. But that’s crap. Wow, okay.” I finally get a hold of myself, and Amir squeezes my shoulders a bit more firmly, pulling me against the back of the uncomfortable chair. “Anything else?”

Clearly, I’ve caught Mr. Waters off guard. He has to flip through some more papers before picking up a box from beside the desk that he sets gingerly on top of it. “There is the matter of his ashes. Mr. Collins had his remains cremated, and he wanted you to have his urn. And this is his will.” He slides another envelope toward me, and I instinctively take it from the desk, opening it with much more ease than the last.

I barely read the contents of this one. Only enough to see that whatever shitty property he has in Michigan is mine, along with whatever’s left of his savings account. He so kindly informs me that he chose not to have a funeral—to save me expense—before listing the items related to our family that he took with him.

A photo.

A ring.

A few collectable cards my dad had always treasured.

My hands tremble ever so slightly as I place the letter back on the table, sitting still long enough for Mr. Waters to read the official will out loud. Amir doesn’t say a word. He keeps his hands on my shoulders almost like a question, and I reach up to brush his fingers.

“Okay,” I whisper at last, once Mr. Waters is done. “That’s okay.” Very gently, I reach out to push both the letters and the urn towards him, prompting Mr. Waters to look at me in utter shock. “No, thank you.”

The room is silent. I can’t even hear Amir breathing behind me. All I can focus on is the heat kicking on in the surprisingly cold space, and my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Er…I’m sorry. I think I misunderstand. What do you mean, ‘No, thank you’?” Mr. Waters asks. “You don’t have to do anything except sign, Ms. Collins. Then his assets and his ashes will be transferred into your custody.”

“Yeah, and I’m saying no, thank you,” I repeat slowly, like I’m talking to a child. Slowly, I get to my feet, not aggressive or upset in any way. Just…tired. “I get that you only know what my father told you about our family, Mr. Waters. But let me be very clear about a couple of things.”

His expression turns guarded, and he glances out the window, as if he’s weighing its feasibility as a route to escape. Unfortunately for him, that window is far too small to fit his bulk through it without getting hopelessly stuck.

“My sister died of lung cancer when I was twelve. It’s still the worst thing I’ve ever seen anyone go through in my life. She died, Mr. Waters. She died in pain, in a hospital, while I watched. My mother became abusive. And I don’t use that word lightly.”

He fidgets, and some darker part of me feels a coil of satisfaction in my stomach. Good, I think to myself. If he’s going to insert himself into this, then he needs to know more than my dad’s version of things.

“My mom hit me. She punished me just for being the one to survive, instead of her not-so-secret favorite child. And you know what my dad did? He left. He walked away and never answered a call or a letter from me. Not even after my mother killed herself in front of me and I ended up in a mental hospital for years.”

He flinches this time, fully uncomfortable with my words.

“So, thank you, but no thank you.” For good measure, I push the urn and letters a little closer to him over the table. “I don’t care what you do with his ashes, his apology, or his assets. But I don’t want any of them. My father gave up the right to be happily remembered and loved by me the day he decided his feelings were more important than his family.”

The coldness in my voice surprises even me, and I clench my trembling fingers at my sides. “I don’t want them. Have a good day, Mr. Waters. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” With that, I turn on my heel, relieved when Amir steps out of my way before I can run into him and ruin my dramatic exit.

He fully catches up to me beside his Range Rover, where I’m struggling to open the door with my shaking, stiff fingers. Amir gently turns me, holding me loosely in the circle of his arms. “I’m proud of you, my love,” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. Not a true kiss, but it’s still enough to send a shiver through me. “I’m so proud of you. Are you okay?”