The promise
"Mom, what about these?" I ask my mother.
We're packing up the contents that were in the desk and books off of the many bookshelves. Mom can't decide what should be shredded and what should be saved. I guess she's deciding to ask dad for his opinion before she does anything drastic.
Mom peers into the box at my feet. More books?
"Are these from the bookshelves? I told you every book was going into that largest plastic container," she says.
I smirk. The mighty Katherine Grey sounds and looks exhausted.
"No, they were in the desk's bottom drawer." I point at the desk. "They were lined up and in order by years."
A small smile tugs the corners of mom's lips. Kneeling down, she picks up a book. I can see that it's either a sketchbook or journal. Looking through the box, I find they're all leather-bound journals.
Mom holds the journal in front of her and closes her eyes. I stare at her and wonder if she's about to burst into tears. I can only remember a handful of times I've seen her cry in my twenty-seven years. The majority of them have been in the past month.
"Mom? Are you all right?" I ask.
I shuffle closer to her awkwardly. Emptying out the house has been hard for everyone, but I haven't seen my mother behave like this.
She opens her eyes and looks at me. Her eyes are dry and she presses the journal to her chest. Smiling at me, she nods.
"I'm fine, Emma Grace. I'm not upset at all. These are just a shock. I always wondered. . . but wasn't sure."
She stares at the journal for a moment before placing it back into the box.
"Honey, pass me the tape and that marker behind you. I'll mark this as important and put it with the books."
Curiosity has gotten the best of me. How can Mom just pack them away? Years of someone's deepest thoughts? Doesn't she want to at least take a look at them?
"Mom, you don't want to read them? At least take a quick look?"
She sits straight up and looks at me, pissed. Instead of giving me a lecture, she sighs.
"Emma Grace, this box holds pages of deeply personal thoughts. . . a diary. People don't write in journals in the hope that someone comes along and reads them. The answer is a resounding no," she replies.
"Kate!" Dad yells from downstairs.
Mom rolls her eyes. "What?" she yells back.
"Come here and tell us what you want to do with this furniture?"
Mom throws her arms in the air and makes her way out of the room to see what Dad is referring to.
"I'm coming down," she exclaims.
Turning, she points at the mess on the floor.
"Tape that box up and keep packing. I'll be back."
I watch her disappear down the hallway. All alone and staring at the box containing years of journals, the temptation is now running through my veins at a high rate of speed. The leather is calling my name.
I reach into the box and start flipping through the tabs that indicate the year they were written. My fingers rapidly turn each paper, eyes scanning the words. I grab the journal from 2019 and two well-weathered envelope falls out.
I gently open the first one to find a letter. The words written make my forehead crinkle from confusion. Huh? I'd know the distinctive handwriting anywhere. My hand covers my mouth as I start to read, my eyes jumping around each paragraph in disbelief.
Anastasia,
"I don't mean for this letter to feel like a ghost from your past has reached out and touched you."
"It's unfair and tragic that I've healed and laid my past to rest because I selfishly put your gentle soul through hell. I acknowledge how cruel I was to you, and how viciously I treated you. I wish that I could take every day that I hurt you back".
This letter was written in 2019? Christ, how old were they? How the fuck did he hurt her? Did anyone else know about this? My eyes furiously absorb every word and tears are filling my eyes. This just can't be right.
"God, I see the catastrophe our marriage was, the catastrophe I made. I see the blood and guts."
I gasp. They were married? Did anyone know? I've never heard of this in the press. It's never even been hinted at, and I'm a grown woman knee deep in the publishing industry.
"Jesus, of course, everyone knew. Well, obviously not everyone," I whisper out loud.
I turn the page over and continue to digest this astonishing bombshell.
"I was a self-centered narcissist, and always knew I was going to splinter your heart"
Splinter her heart? Come the fuck on and tell me what happened. Oh, God. Do I say something to Mom and Dad about this? Maybe I can ask Aunt Mia. Shit, I can't trust her from running her mouth. I take that back. She knew about this bomb and never mentioned it.
"For what it may be worth, I'll forever lay in bed at night and wonder, "what if."
Mother fucker. Please make me understand this shit. This is major family shit. But somewhere. . . somewhere deep down, I remember something always feeling. . . off. Quickly, I place the letter back in the envelope and open the other one. It looks as old as the one I've just read.
"November 8, 2015
Dear Christian,"
2015? The other one was written in 2019. He waited four years before he apologized? Why did he have to apologize? Why hasn't anyone ever mentioned that they were fucking married? My hands are beginning to tremble.
"How your betrayals tore me into pieces that floated away on the wind. I really believe that after you, Hell will be easy."
Holy shit. She's referring to my Uncle Christian? The same Uncle Christian that I love? What the fuck.
"… I dreamt about us. The us we could have been."
"I wanted that dream to be our reality. I wanted that life with you, … I wanted nothing more than to look at our child and see your eyes staring back at me."
"I'll always carry a tiny part of you within my heart, … whether you want to be there or not."
Every sentence is disjointed in my mind. Tears are rolling down my cheeks and my heart starts to ache for both of them. What happened? Those were the words of two devastated people. Two crushed souls, and not the two people I grew up around. Hell, I'd love to know this story. I'd love to have been able to at least. . . hell, I don't know what I'd love to have done.
Again, I slide the letter into the envelope and place both of them in the 2015 journal.
Quickly putting that journal in its proper place, I grab the newest one. My heart breaks when I see the date written in the last entry. This was written exactly one month ago – to the day. I gasp. Tears are pouring down my face as I continue to read.
Another day. Another entry.
I've spent the day reflecting on my life. Whenever I become introspective, there are always periods of my life that I fast forward through. I'm sure everyone does. There isn't a person alive whose life has been spotless and without regrets.
Regrets. The what-ifs that can never be realized. They are that red light that you were dared to run, but at the time, were too afraid to do it. A life led by fear is always a wasted one. I can say that with confidence. Looking back with regrets always revolve around that life you could have had. The life that you now know you deserved to have, but at the time you didn't care if it evaporated. Now you know you wasted your life.
I've been asked for advice countless times. From what university someone should attend, to what career suited a person the best. I've been asked about the things I wish I could do over, about love, and even life-long happiness.
I have spent the better part of my day sitting alone in my office thinking about those last three questions that I've had thrown at me. I've never been able to articulate the point I want to get across, but I think if I'm ever asked for my thoughts on love and happiness again, I'm going to offer one of those pointless what ifs. Maybe that will put someone on the right road. Perhaps telling them this will place them on the road to a happy life:
"Ten years will pass and there you are, living in that huge house that is surrounded by the proverbial white picket fence and a porch swing. It's been ten years since you vowed to love them for life and have your happily ever after. However, something happened along the way, and those vows disintegrated. Now you watch a sunrise and gaze upon a sunset, wondering where they are. You recall, "I love you. I'll always love you."
More time goes by –
Twenty years will pass and you'll notice the wrinkles around your eyes whenever you smile, and you'll find that first gray hair. You'll have middle-age panic attacks and wonder when life became so boring. Yours is stable and calm. Too stable and too calm. You do believe you've buried past demons and have life figured out. Nevertheless, you do sometimes mutter, "I'm getting too old for this shit." Then, suddenly, and out of left field, their young face comes to mind. You wonder if there are lines around their eyes when they smile. Have they found a stray gray hair? You've no doubt they're still as beautiful as they were the day you broke their heart.
More time goes by, only now you know yours is running out –
Fifty years have passed. Your hair is like snow and a cane is your best friend. Memories will float around your mind like white clouds in the bluest sky. Typically, you can't remember what you ate for breakfast or where your glasses are, despite the fact that you're wearing them. Your body aches and at this stage of your life, it's often hard to catch your breath. On those days you'll be forced to sit down. Your body and your mind will still. It's on these days you remember them. The way their hair smelled and the way their skin felt underneath your hands. You know the saying, "You always remember the one you let get away" is true. You can't recall yesterday's weather, although, you can still feel a fifty-year-old summer breeze that made long hair blow around you. "I hope they're happy," you'll say out loud, while those around you think it's just the ramblings of your aged mind. You smile because you know they're wrong. Then, a single tear will run down your cheek when you wonder if they've spent their entire life remembering you, the way that you've spent yours loving them."
That's the way that I feel; from now on, that's what I'll tell anyone who asks for my advice. However, that does sound like a warning, no, I'll say it's a cautionary tale of what can happen when you take the love of another for granted. Time passes and consequences stick around. Don't waste one and always avoid the other.
I don't know if I'm feeling this way and having these thoughts because I remembered what today is. Maybe remembering that day is why I avoid looking back at my life.
And one important point that I'll emphasize is to always follow through on something you begin, because you don't know if you could have changed the course of your life. This sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth: If you ever write someone a letter that might heal one injury you inflicted on their soul, do everything in your damned power to give it to them. Not to find out if it might benefit you, but so they will know they were priceless and you eventually saw that. Tell them you're sorry, even if they don't care or believe you. Just tell them. If you can't in person, write it down. But for the love of God, don't give up until that letter is in their hands. If you don't, I assure you regret and pain will be your lifelong penance.
I'm openly weeping. One hand covers my mouth and the other is on my stomach. These letters have broken my heart, but these words just twisted the broken pieces. Knowing who they had to be about guts me, God, the letter had never been sent. Never. She never knew he read hers. Am I the only one who has ever read these? My, God. Of course, I am. The journal entry says so. This is ripping me apart.
And now that feeling I remember from somewhere deep makes sense. So many weird moments have fallen into place. I can see it now. It all makes sense, and it's broken my heart.
Wiping my nose with my shirt sleeve, I start to close the journal but look at the date on that last entry once more. It had been written just a month ago. I take a deep shuddering breath and run my finger across the date.
September 10
Aunt Ana's birthday, and the day my Uncle Christian died last month. The day a strong and healthy man died too young.
A shiver runs through me, and I hear Mom's voice calling for me. I straighten the journals and place them back in the order in which they were. As I reach for the tape, a thought enters my mind. Well, not so much a thought. It's part of that last journal entry.
"If you ever write someone a letter that might heal one injury you inflicted on their soul, do everything in your damned power to give it to them. Not to find out if it might benefit you, but so they will know they were priceless and you eventually saw that. Tell them you are sorry, even if they don't care or believe you. Just tell them. If you can't in person, write it down. But for the love of God, don't give up until that letter is in their hands. If you don't, I assure you regret and pain will be your lifelong penance."
I don't know, and probably never will know, what happened between Aunt Ana and Uncle Christian, but I do know it must have cut deep and it sounded unbelievably painful. That letter she wrote to him four long years before he replied to hers, was so raw and bloody, I could feel her pain. And I can't understand the reason Uncle Christian had for not reaching out to her after he first got it.
It had to have been something unforgivable. I know my Aunt Ana. She's one of the kindest human beings' I've ever met. I can only imagine her not forgiving someone unless they did something truly unforgivable, and I love my uncle, but from both of their letters, it's abundantly clear that he must have done something awful to her. Something so deep that ended a marriage that this second generation of Greys knows nothing about.
Uncle Christian obviously devastated Aunt Ana. He must not have cared enough about it to wait four years to own up to his actions and to tell her that he was sorry, but eventually, he wanted her to know he was glad she'd moved on and was happy. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but what if she'd still felt hurt or as if she was the one at blame? The words he wrote weren't asking her to absolve him of the sins he obviously committed against her, it read like he was trying to absolve himself.
He had never told her that he was sorry. Aunt Ana has gone years never knowing that he was. She never knew how he felt about his behavior, about the way he'd treated her. He never got the chance to let her know, and now it's too late. Does she still wonder about any of this shit? Does she lay awake at night and blame herself? Question herself? She's never shown me anything but confidence and kindness.
How would I feel if my husband did something so bad to me that it caused the damage those letters plainly laid bare? What would I always think of myself if he blamed me for his unforgivable behavior, and never, ever, told me that it wasn't me; it was all him. That he owned it. That he pled guilty to all of the crimes he'd committed. Would I want to know that he did? If there was a lingering blister of pain in my heart, would I want a bit of salve to cover it with? Perhaps it would finally be able to heal?
Shit. Fuck. Damn. I know what I would want, but what about Aunt Ana? I can close my eyes and recall so many times that mentioning my uncle would pause sentences. I can see the frost that would cloud my mother's eyes whenever he was around. Hell, now it all comes together. It all comes together perfectly, and now that I know why, it all comes together so painfully.
They were married. Uncle Christian did something horrid to her. He told her it was all her fault. She believed him. He realized what he'd had and destroyed. He wrote her a letter to tell her it was never her, that it was all him. She never knew he felt that was for whatever reason, Aunt Ana never saw his letter. How fucked is that?
It was exactly one month ago that my Uncle Christian probably sat behind the very desk I'm staring at, and wrote that last journal entry. His thoughts were to warn people about leaving wounds exposed, cautioning others to find closure. Demanding that if you couldn't tell someone you'd fucked up and were sorry, you'd better write it down, and then make sure that person read it. He said to make damn sure they received it. That the one they'd hurt deserved to know they weren't as worthless as they'd been made to believe they were.
Oh, Uncle Christian. What did you do to Aunt Ana?
Anastasia Steele was my mentor. She's the reason that I'm an author. We went to England together and visited every home of our British literary heroes. She schooled me in the publishing industry and was always the first person I called for advice, hell, I still call her for advice. Her last name is so fitting for her; she's so strong and stoic. I lived with her for six months. How did I not know she'd once been a Grey? Aunt Ana had really been my aunt. I wonder how long?
Christian Grey was just that, Christian Grey. He listened to me when I told him that I didn't want to go to an Ivy League college like Grandpa Grey kept pressing me to. He encouraged me to follow my dreams to be a writer. He fucking offered me Grey Publishing. The man left me, and the rest of his nieces and one nephew, more money than we'll ever be able to spend. He often screamed at his employees at Grey House and would become a closed off island state. I would wonder why he never settled down with the few women that he had relationships with, and when I thought about it, I'd feel sad knowing he'd never had his own family. An heir to run Grey House.
Perhaps I now know the answers.
Perhaps I know what I should do. What I'd want someone to do for me if I were in their shoes. I don't know if Aunt Ana's heart has parts that are frozen hard when it comes to my uncle, and no letter will melt them. She might hate me. My mother might hate me. Uncle Christian might not approve of what I know that I'm going to do. However, his words were an extension of his thoughts, and he didn't believe in being a coward once you accepted that you'd been one. No, regrets, he'd written. Run a red light, he'd written. Make sure they received that letter, he'd written. And then he'd warned of paying a penance. I think I grew up watching Uncle Christian pay his penance. I don't know their story, so maybe he deserved that penance. What if Aunt Ana deserves closure. Closure she never received and was told that she didn't deserve. What if.
Abandoning my back and forth reasonings, I dig through the box and grab the journal from 2015. I flip the pages until both of their letters are in hand. Knowing deep inside of me that Aunt Ana wondered if he'd ever read it, and never knew he'd kept it for decades, I take hers and Uncle Christian's. Right or wrong, wrong or right, one of these people can finally know the truth. How I wish that Uncle Christian would have taken his own advice. He didn't and lived his entire life regretting it.
I hurriedly tape the box up and grab the black magic marker. I scrawl, "VIP" on it and place it by my uncle's books. I tuck the letters in the front of my jeans and make my way out of the large room that was Christian Grey's home office. I take a long hard look at the now bare space, and my eyes land on the box.
I dash my blinding tears away, as my mother calls my name again.
"I'm on my way, Mom," I call out.
I slowly close the door but look at the damn box again before it completely shuts.
"I'll give Aunt Ana the letters, Uncle Christian. I promise."