Page 91 of Hunter

I slam the letter on the desk, grabbing my phone, my fingers shaking as I press the end button on Maxim’s call. I don’t care what I miss; I don’t care about anything but the truth. I dial my mom’s number, hearing it ring twice before she picks up.

“Hi—”

I cut her off before she could finish. “Why didn’t you tell me Papi died of cancer?” The words come out in fits, each one punctuated by sobs that wrack my body.

The line goes silent for several agonizing seconds. Then, she takes a shaky breath, her voice soft but heavy with something I can’t quite place. “I was wondering how long it would take for that good-for-nothing criminal boyfriend of yours to tell you about your dad’s cancer.”

She knows. She knows about Maxim. She knows about Dad’s secret life.

There’s so much to unpack in what she just said, so many layers I’m afraid to peel back. Since Maxim and Andrei told me about my dad, I’ve wondered if my mom knew about his secret life. But I was too scared to ask, too afraid of the answer. If she didn’t know, we’d both be left with shattered pieces and no way to put them back together. Thinking back to the day Maximcrashed our brunch, I should’ve realized something was off, the way she looked at him—so much hatred, so much anger. But I was too wrapped up in my own feelings of embarrassment and lust to dig deeper.

“Maxim didn’t tell me anything,” I snap at her, defensive even though I’m angry with him too. “Dad left me a letter.”

“Ese hombre y sus estúpidas cartas,” she sighs, her tone a mix of frustration, annoyance, and—is that resentment I hear? I can’t be hearing it right. She can’t resent Dad. I refuse to believe she has ill feelings toward him. The love I saw between them growing up doesn’t allow my mind to accept the idea that my mother feels anything but love for my father.

“That man is my dad and your husband. And he was going through so much excruciating pain from cancer that you both kept from me.” I can’t help but point it out, the bitterness seeping into my voice. “And if writing letters was how he coped with his prognosis, then who are you to be upset about the letters he wrote?”

“I’m not upset about the letters, Sophia. I’m upset he wrote them to begin with. Your dad, like you love to point out, should’ve said his peace in person—not left letters for me to hand out like his death wasn’t going to be hard on me to begin with.”

As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. Dad should’ve said goodbye in person. That would’ve made everything easier. But that’s speaking from how I’m feeling right now, having read those letters. My lip tugs down in a frown. Easier for whom, though? Not for me.

It wouldn’t have been easy on him either. My dad was terrible at expressing his feelings. He’d suppress them until he couldn’t anymore. But I can’t only think about him when my mom is right about how hard this must’ve been for her. He was already gone,but she had to face people, their grief mirroring her own while dealing with her own silent pain.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have attacked you. Giving out those letters must have been harder on you than I realized.”

“Yeah,” she hesitates, her voice small. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy.”

I get the strange feeling from the shift in her tone that she didn’t send those letters. “Mom, did you even send them?”

“No, I didn’t send them, Sophia,” she snaps, her voice rising in frustration. “Please, don’t start judging me.”

“I’m not judging, Mom. I understand why you couldn’t.”

“Because I couldn’t, Sophia.” She rambles on as though she didn’t hear me. Her mind is clearly on defense. “I couldn’t look that man in the face. I couldn’t hand the letters to the person who kept your father from doing a lot of things with us as a family. I just—” She cuts herself off, suddenly stopping, as if realizing she almost said something she didn’t want to.

My eyebrows furrow in confusion, curious about what she stopped herself from saying. “You couldn’t face what?” I push for an answer, the frustration mounting. There’s something she’s hiding, and I’m tired of all the lies people have fed me to protect me, to keep me safe.

She sucks her teeth loudly, exaggerating the sound, ensuring I hear how irritated she is. “Olvídate, Sophia. I just couldn’t do it. Let it go.”

I know there’s no point in pressing further—she won’t answer. “Where’s Maxim’s letter, Mom?”

“That’s what you care about? His stupid letter? Not the reasons why your father couldn’t be with us during special occasions? Why wasn’t he there to tuck you in at night? Why he left during holidays, during award ceremonies, in the middle of the night—” She falls silent for a moment, the sound of her washing dishes stopping abruptly. “Unless you already know about your dad being a mafioso’s family doctor.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the all-too-familiar deflection. I’ve seen it a hundred times. She’s trying to shift focus, turning something small into something bigger to make me forget my question.

“Yes, Mom. I know everything.”

“How dare you still be with that horrid person?” Her voice is sharp, filled with disgust.

I’m not in the mood for this. “Where’s Maxim’s letter? And how many other letters did Dad write?”

“He wrote one to you and Maxim.”

Not one to Jenny? Why? I freeze, thinking back to the letter Dad wrote to me. He said you are mine and your mom’s greatest joy. Not you and your sister. Not mine and your mom’s greatest joys. Suddenly, memories of my childhood flash through my mind—Dad always seemed closer to me, excluding Jenny from many things he and I did together. Could that be why she hated me? Did I steal his attention from her?

“Why didn’t Dad leave one for Jenny?” I ask, my hand trembling with nerves. Could this finally answer a question I’ve had my whole life?

“I don’t know why he didn’t, Sophia,” she replies, a touch of bitterness creeping into her voice. “I wasn’t privy to what went on in your father’s head.”

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