When Grant told me he was taking your mother to the theater, rather than attend my publication party for The Moon on the Water, I kicked up a fuss and tried to get him to change his mind. He attempted to calm me down and was late when he rushed away.

When I learned of Grant’s death I was devastated. I wished I hadn’t made a scene and felt everything was my fault. Even worse, I couldn’t attend his funeral to mourn him. I began to drink and have never known if alcohol is my salvation, or my punishment.

My life has been full of soaring highs and the deepest lows. I married Ted Mason, a man I didn’t truly love. My next husband, Hank, fathered a child, something I could never give him. I utterly disgraced myself at a party, on the twentieth anniversary of losing your father. I couldn’t face the world and my readers any longer. I wasn’t the person they thought I was, that I could no longer pretend to be, and I shut myself away. When I received my diagnosis, I felt like it was my penance and that I deserved it. I’m not trying to gain your sympathy. I just want you to understand.

I realized who you were when you wrote to me and mentioned Grant’s name. You were looking for work and I found myself in a dilemma. Did I help out the daughter of the only man I ever loved, or keep her at bay?

I offered you the job, initially for a few months, until you found something else. Except, something strange happened. I found myself falling a little in love with you. Not in a romantic way, but I saw glimpses of Grant in you and it brought me a touch of joy I hadn’t experienced for many years. You were determined and fun, even reminding me of myself before my health diminished. I couldn’t tell you that I knew your father. It would raise too many questions, and then you’d leave me. And I couldn’t bear to lose you, too. The closer we became, the more difficult it was to reveal the truth. You said in your letter you wanted to write. I thought I could help you, and it might help me out, too. It would take time and I thought I had plenty of it. Except my health worsened and I wrote my will.

I see you look at my apartment and awards with stars in your eyes. I know better than anyone that health, family and happiness are things money can’t buy. I see talents glimmering in you that are probably invisible to you. The longer you stay working for me, the more you might see them, too.