Chapter 9 - THE CHRISTMAS LETTERS
Roman wrote one letter every day.
Not emails.
Letters.
Three hundred and ninety-seven of them.
Some were for Norah.
Some for Lily.
Some for Luca.
Norah saved every one.
In March:
Lily, your mother says you rolled over today. I have instructed her to tell you that doing important things while your father is absent is unacceptable. She told me to stop being dramatic.
In April:
Luca, apparently you have discovered bananas. Your grandmother sent me twelve photographs. In eleven of them, the banana is on your face instead of in your mouth. I respect the commitment.
In May:
Norah, I used to believe providing meant money. I’m beginning to understand presence is more expensive. Money costs what you have. Presence costs who you are.
That letter made her cry.
Roman behaved well.
His sentence was reduced modestly.
He worked in the prison library.
Nobody believed it at first.
The man who once controlled warehouses now reshelved legal textbooks.
He hated every second.
And somehow valued it.
Counseling began through supervised sessions.
Norah attended remotely.
Their therapist once asked Roman why he had never told Norah he was leaving organized crime.
“Because I wanted her to admire the result.”
“And what did she need?”
Roman looked at Norah on the screen.
“To trust the process.”
Norah cried afterward.
Not because Roman had found the perfect words.
Because the old Roman would never have admitted he needed to learn them.
Summer passed.
The twins learned to crawl.
Roman missed their first birthdays by seventeen days.
That nearly broke him.
Norah took a small cake to visitation.
Lily smashed icing against the glass partition.
Roman laughed so hard a guard smiled.
Then October arrived.
His release date was set for December 23.
Norah kept it secret from the twins, who were now toddling and calling every dark-haired man on television “Dada.”
On December 22, Norah received a package.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Roman leaving the federal facility during a supervised work transfer.
A red X had been drawn over his face.
Beneath it:
SINS DON’T SERVE SENTENCES.
Norah called Ward.
Within hours, investigators identified the threat.
One surviving associate from Vincent’s organization had been stalking Roman.
Norah’s old instinct returned.
Run.
Pack.
Disappear.
She opened a suitcase.
Then stopped.
Lily stood in the doorway holding Roman’s photograph.
“Dada?”
Norah stared at her daughter.
She remembered the woman she had been.
Running had saved her once.
But she refused to make it the family language.
She closed the suitcase.
Then called the police.
The stalker was arrested that evening carrying a weapon and Roman’s release schedule.
Norah sat awake until dawn.
This time, she had not hidden.
She had asked for help.
Roman called the next morning.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You should have taken the twins somewhere.”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“Your mother’s condo.”
Roman paused.
“You trusted my mother?”
“She makes excellent pancakes.”
“That woman burned water until she was fifty.”
“Grandchildren changed her.”
Roman laughed.
Then his voice softened.
“Tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Norah?”
“Yes?”
“I’m scared.”
She had never heard him say those words.
“Of what?”
“Coming home.”
“Why?”
“What if I don’t fit anymore?”
Norah looked around the house.
Toys covered the floor.
Two high chairs occupied the kitchen.
Roman’s letters filled a wooden box.
A photograph of him holding the twins stood on the mantel.
“You have a place here.”
He breathed out.
“Is that the same as having you?”
Norah smiled.
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
At 10:17 the next morning, the gate opened.
Roman walked outside carrying one small duffel.
No tailored suit.
No expensive watch.
Jeans.
Dark sweater.
A year older.
A lifetime quieter.
Norah waited beside the car.
Roman stopped when he saw her.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then the back door opened.
Elena had failed spectacularly at following instructions.
Two tiny figures appeared.
“Dada!”
Roman dropped the duffel.
Lily ran first.
Luca followed unsteadily.
Roman fell to his knees.
Both children crashed into him.
His arms closed around them.
He buried his face against their hair.
Norah watched his shoulders shake.
Roman DeLuca cried openly in a parking lot.
He did not care who saw.
Then he looked at Norah.
She approached.
“Welcome home.”
Roman stood.
“What happens now?”
She smiled.
“Now you change Luca.”
Roman looked down.
Luca smelled suspicious.
“Some things about freedom are disappointing.”
Norah laughed.
Then Roman noticed something.
A small velvet box was visible inside her coat pocket.
His eyes narrowed.
“What’s that?”
Norah covered it.
“Nothing.”
“Norah.”
“Christmas.”
“For whom?”
She opened the car door.
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
Roman stared after her.
For the first time in years, the man who once demanded answers immediately simply smiled.
May you like
He could wait.
He had learned how.
