Chapter Ten: Her Father's Letter

It had been a rigorous process, but Vincent finally learned all of the essential skills a toddler would need to know, with some altercations, of course. In the end, he learned what he needed to learn, and that was all that mattered for now. Mary patted him on the head and then left him to play with his blocks.

Mary hadn’t left her house at all since they visited the hospital. She had been so busy trying to get Vincent ready for childhood that she hadn’t even had time to pay the bills and check the mail. If she hadn’t have gotten a call from her electric company, the bills would have remained untouched. Mary gathered all of her mail and took it inside. She signed her bills and then put them in envelopes along with a hefty check. “My, my, this little house is getting a bit expensive . . .” she murmured as she went through even more bills.

Finally, after all the bills had been sorted through, Mary checked her mail. There were a few coupons, a magazine, and a post card from someone she didn’t know. That’s it? For whatever reason, she had expected to get at least a handful of letters. Huh, I guess no one really knows where I am . . . she sighed and then stood up to go put the bills back in the mailbox, but as she stood, something caught her eyes. There was a letter in front of her front door.  Mary raised an eyebrow and picked it up.

It was a rather regal looking letter. It almost seemed like it had been lightly dusted with gold dust. She turned it over and saw that it had “Mary” written on the back in elegant script. “Must be from back home . . . I wonder what the occasion is,” Mary said almost sarcastically as she sat back down.  She grabbed a knife and then carefully cut a slit in the top of the envelope. She then pulled out a simple piece of paper. She looked at the bottom of the paper and saw that it was from her father. “Well . . . I suppose I better read this in detail since it’s not from both of them.”

To My Dearest Daughter,

I’m not quite sure how to start this, or how to tell you this, my dear. This letter isn’t going to be a happy one, and I hope that you’ve matured enough to understand that. I wish I could sugarcoat it even just a little for you, but I fear that my time has run short. Mary, your mother has passed away, and I fear that my hourglass is almost out of sand as well.

I know you and your mother never got along as well as we did, but as she was breathing her last breaths, she wanted me to tell you that she had always loved you even if it didn’t seem like it. About thirty minutes after that, she passed on peacefully. At least she didn’t suffer . . .

The doctors told me that she had simply died of old age, but I don’t quite believe that. She had been complaining of chest pain, but then she told me not to worry. I believe her old heart finally just gave out on her.

Now I have been getting chest pains and just general pains all around my body. I have visited Dr. Hemsley, but he tells me it’s just depression. I can see it in his eyes though; my time is coming. I told myself when you were born that I would carry what I’m about to tell you to my grave, but I can’t. You need to know. Mary, you have an older sister. A half sister.

Your mother and I . . . we weren’t always the happiest couple, and that was primarily my fault. One thing led to another, and soon enough, your mother was expecting. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry at her, though, but I did find myself infuriated with the child who was still in your mother’s womb. 

Nine months later, the little girl was born. I let your mother raise her alone until she was a child. I tell you, whenever that baby started sprouting blonde little tufts of hair, I almost lost it. There was only one other man in all of Sunset Valley that your mother would even give the time of day to—Thomas Prim, and almost needless to say, he had the same luminous blond hair. 

Now, I never told you about our family rivals, but I absolutely despised the Prims. I almost think your mother had an affair with him for revenge instead of comfort. Never did I dream that my precious daughter would share blood with those fiends! I confronted your mother about it, and she confirmed my suspicions, and as soon as that baby became a child, she would be regarded as nothing but a mere maid in my household. 

Your mother hated me for quite some time after that, but she forgave me somehow. After that, we had a little “make-up time”, and nine months later, a little Mary came into the world. After you were born, I became a better man. A much better man. I let the child go live with her father, and after that, I never heard from her again. Your mother never spoke of her either. 

I’m sorry I never told you about this, dear, and now I fear that it’s too late. All of these years, I’ve hated myself for doing what I did to that child. I’ve hated myself with a passion. Now I feel indebt to the girl, and there’s only one way that I feel I can repay her now. Mary, you won’t be receiving inheritance. Inheritance will be going to your sister—Amary Prim.

These pains . . . they’re getting strong. I believe I’m going to have to go lay down . . .

From that point, the text became very scrawled, almost impossible to read. Mary could only make out the fact that it ended very abruptly. Was she even trying to read it though? Everything around her was shaking. Her mother was dead. Her father had more than likely died writing her the letter that she held in her hands. Amary was her sister. Amary was her sister. Amary was her sister . . .  Slowly, things began clicking in her mind. While Mary had had everything as a child, Amary sat back and watched. Mary had rubbed everything she had in Amary’s face. She had teased her, bugged her, and all around acted rude to her. Mary understood now, but it was too late to go back and change the past.

Just like her father, Mary’s rival was from the Prim family, but unlike her father, her rival was her own blood.