Chapter 11 - Miriam’s Bitter Tears And A Daughter’s Letter
Before Victor boarded his flight to Europe, he visited his mother in a modest assisted-living facility on the outskirts of Richmond.
Miriam Reynolds sat in a wheelchair by the window, wrapped in a faded wool shawl, staring out at the parking lot with vacant, lifeless eyes.
The high-society galas, the country club luncheons, the lavish dinner parties—all of it had vanished like smoke. Her former friends avoided her calls, embarrassed to be associated with the family whose corruption and scandal had been plastered across every newspaper in the commonwealth.
On the small bedside table beside her sat an old, crumpled piece of drawing paper that Charlotte had drawn when she was four years old—a crayon sketch of Miriam sitting on a park bench with the words: “I love you Grandma.”
Miriam picked up the drawing with trembling, spotted hands, pressing it against her frail chest, weeping silent, bitter tears of regret.
“We threw them away, Victor,” Miriam whispered, her voice cracked and frail. “We had two perfect, loving angels in our home... and we threw them into the street for a lie.”
“I’m going to find them, Mom,” Victor promised, kneeling beside her chair, clutching her frail hand. “I’m going to bring them back. I’ll make Penelope understand. She’ll let me be a father again.”
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Miriam looked at her son with eyes full of sorrowful wisdom.
“A man who throws his children away when he thinks he has an empire,” Miriam said softly, “does not deserve to knock on their door when he is a beggar.”
