The Last of the Stanfields

by Marc Levy

Dear George, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve abridged your name, but hyphenated monikers run a bit long for my taste, even when they are as dignified as yours. But I digress. My opinion about your name is not why I’m writing to you today. I can’t even begin to fathom how difficult it must be to watch your own mother slip away right before your eyes, day after day. Your mother was a talented and courageous woman. But she was other things, as well. All we can ever see of our parents is what they wish to show us, and we in turn must choose how to see what we’ve been shown. And how easy it is to

forget that they had a whole life before us. The life of which I speak was theirs and theirs only, a life with all of its dreams and fantasies, as well as the tormented hardship of youth . . . Your mother, too, had to break free of her chains. The question is: How? Did she ever tell you the truth about your father, the man you never knew? How did he meet your mother? Why would he abandon you? There are still so many questions. To uncover the truth, you need to go out and find the answers. Should you decide to do so, I would caution you to conduct your research skillfully. As you might imagine, someone as

shrewd as your mother would not simply bury her most intimate secrets somewhere they would be easy to find. As soon as you lay your hands on the proof that will back up my claims—for undoubtedly, your first reaction will be utter disbelief—you will need to venture out to come and find me. But not until the time comes . . . Until then, take some time to think it over. You’ve much to do. Best get started straightaway. I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving this letter unsigned. It’s not ...

this letter. You’d be wise to destroy it as soon as you’ve finished reading it. Keeping it will serve no purpose. Take my words to heart: I wish noth...