After the funeral, I returned to my apartment and found an envelope waiting for me. It was cream-colored, unmarked, and it had been delivered by hand. I opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a letter, written in Eleanor's spidery handwriting. It had been dated six months earlier, before we had even met.
"My dear Estella," it began. "If you are reading this, I am dead. I wanted you to know the truth. The whole truth. Not the version my son will tell, or the version the newspapers will print. But the truth as I lived it."
I sat down, my heart pounding, and I read.
"I did not choose you because of your father. I did not choose you because of the company. I chose you because you are the granddaughter I never had. Your mother, Margaret, was my daughter. My illegitimate daughter, born
