Post by Isabella Rothschild on Jan 14, 2007 23:31:19 GMT -5
Isabella sat down on the sofa in her office, holding the letter her father had written for her on his death bed. She didn't know what to expect, and she wasn't at all sure she wanted to know what he had to say. He had put her through so much misery as a child. There had been so many times she had tried to get him to see her, to be proud of her, and to love her, only to be ignored and treated as if she didn't matter. Now that she knew about the secrets of her past that had been kept from her so long, she couldn't imagine what her father could possibly say to her that wouldn't hurt.
Sighing to herself, Isabella held up the letter. But for a long moment, she simply couldn't make herself open it. Her hands began to shake and she set it down again, and picked up a glass of pumpkin juice she had on the table next to her. Taking a long sip, she found herself wishing for something stronger. She hadn't had a sip of alcohol since the day she'd found out about the baby, but now she wanted one. She'd always wanted to drink when she thought about her father.
Still, she finished the glass of pumpkin juice and set it back down on the table. Then she picked up the letter again and took a deep breath before tearing into it. She closed her eyes for one moment while she steadied her breathing, then finally, she began to read:
My Dear Isabella,
By the time you read this letter, I will be gone from this life, and onto the next, whatever it may hold for me. I do not dare to assume or even hope that you will shed a tear for me after all that I have done. And I am sure you would find it condescending and even selfish for me to apologize for those things after all this time. But I hope you will indulge a dying man in his need for redemption and forgiveness from his only child. I know I wasn't a good father to you, and that I never gave you the love and attention you so desperately needed. That was my fault, and not yours. I simply couldn't allow myself to feel as I should have, because of what your existence cost me.
By now I am sure you have been told that Meredith Rothschild was not your mother. Your mother was Angelina Boccello, the younger sister of my lawyer, Raphael. I met her during a very brief split between Meredith and myself early in our marriage. I was hurt and angry, and I turned to the pretty dancer Angelina for comfort. I did not expect Angelina to become pregnant, but she did. I didn't find out right away; rather, I had managed to reunite with Meredith, who had also learned she was pregnant at this time. We got back together, and we were happy for a brief time. In fact, for the first time, I actually felt that Meredith loved me as I loved her. But it ended quickly. Meredith had a miscarriage and learned she could not have more children, just as I received the letter from Angelina about you. Meredith was furious and nearly threw me out, but her family had suffered a financial setback and could not support her in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed. I went to visit Angelina, and my intentions were to provide for you, but let you stay with your mother. Unfortunately, she had a weak heart and she died in childbirth. I had no choice at that time but to take you in. Meredith didn't want you, but in the end, she agreed.
I am sure you are wondering why I refused to tell you of your true identity. The reason was that I wanted you to believe that you were from a good, old family, and that your blood was pure. And I didn't want you to ever wish for the life you would have had if your mother had lived. Angelina was a good woman, sweet and beautiful, and she loved you more than her own life. She even named you with her dying breath. If you had lived with her, your life would have been different, and certainly happier. But growing up with me made you a strong, confident, self-reliant woman. I never told you this, but I was always proud of that aspect of you. And I am beyond pleased that you found someone to love you as you deserve. I know you probably cannot and should not forgive me for all that I have done, but I do hope you can at least forget the past and move on to a brighter, happier future with your new husband. And I know that you will raise your child well. I love you, my Isabella. Have a wonderful life.
Love,
Father
Isabella dropped the letter and began to cry bitterly.
Sighing to herself, Isabella held up the letter. But for a long moment, she simply couldn't make herself open it. Her hands began to shake and she set it down again, and picked up a glass of pumpkin juice she had on the table next to her. Taking a long sip, she found herself wishing for something stronger. She hadn't had a sip of alcohol since the day she'd found out about the baby, but now she wanted one. She'd always wanted to drink when she thought about her father.
Still, she finished the glass of pumpkin juice and set it back down on the table. Then she picked up the letter again and took a deep breath before tearing into it. She closed her eyes for one moment while she steadied her breathing, then finally, she began to read:
My Dear Isabella,
By the time you read this letter, I will be gone from this life, and onto the next, whatever it may hold for me. I do not dare to assume or even hope that you will shed a tear for me after all that I have done. And I am sure you would find it condescending and even selfish for me to apologize for those things after all this time. But I hope you will indulge a dying man in his need for redemption and forgiveness from his only child. I know I wasn't a good father to you, and that I never gave you the love and attention you so desperately needed. That was my fault, and not yours. I simply couldn't allow myself to feel as I should have, because of what your existence cost me.
By now I am sure you have been told that Meredith Rothschild was not your mother. Your mother was Angelina Boccello, the younger sister of my lawyer, Raphael. I met her during a very brief split between Meredith and myself early in our marriage. I was hurt and angry, and I turned to the pretty dancer Angelina for comfort. I did not expect Angelina to become pregnant, but she did. I didn't find out right away; rather, I had managed to reunite with Meredith, who had also learned she was pregnant at this time. We got back together, and we were happy for a brief time. In fact, for the first time, I actually felt that Meredith loved me as I loved her. But it ended quickly. Meredith had a miscarriage and learned she could not have more children, just as I received the letter from Angelina about you. Meredith was furious and nearly threw me out, but her family had suffered a financial setback and could not support her in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed. I went to visit Angelina, and my intentions were to provide for you, but let you stay with your mother. Unfortunately, she had a weak heart and she died in childbirth. I had no choice at that time but to take you in. Meredith didn't want you, but in the end, she agreed.
I am sure you are wondering why I refused to tell you of your true identity. The reason was that I wanted you to believe that you were from a good, old family, and that your blood was pure. And I didn't want you to ever wish for the life you would have had if your mother had lived. Angelina was a good woman, sweet and beautiful, and she loved you more than her own life. She even named you with her dying breath. If you had lived with her, your life would have been different, and certainly happier. But growing up with me made you a strong, confident, self-reliant woman. I never told you this, but I was always proud of that aspect of you. And I am beyond pleased that you found someone to love you as you deserve. I know you probably cannot and should not forgive me for all that I have done, but I do hope you can at least forget the past and move on to a brighter, happier future with your new husband. And I know that you will raise your child well. I love you, my Isabella. Have a wonderful life.
Love,
Father
Isabella dropped the letter and began to cry bitterly.
