Dear Mr. Knightley,
Each and every moment things change. For the most part, I loathe it. Change never works in my favor—as evidenced by so many foster placements, a holdup at a Chicago White Hen, getting fired from Ernst & Young, and so many other changes in my life I’d like to forget. But I needed one more—a change of my own making—so I pursued your grant again.
But it’s not of my own making, is it?
Father John told me this morning that he was the one who proposed journalism for me—it was not an original requirement for your grant. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. My professor at Roosevelt College said I produced some of the best work on Austen, Dickens, and the Brontes he’d ever read. I’m good at fiction, Mr. Knightley. And I don’t think it’s right that Father John took away my choice. I’m twenty-three years old; I should be the author of the changes in my life.
I went to Father John and explained all this. I feel he has arbitrarily forced me into journalism—a field I don’t know and don’t write. “You need to undo that,” I pleaded. “They’ll listen to you.”
Father John closed his eyes. One might think he’d fallen asleep, but I knew better. He was praying. He does that—a lot.
Minutes passed. He opened his eyes and zeroed in on me. Sometimes I feel his eyes are tired, but not at that moment. They were piercing and direct. I knew his answer before he opened his mouth.
“Sam, I won’t . . . but you can. Write the foundation’s director and ask.” Father John stared into my eyes, measuring his words. “Don’t lie. Don’t tell them I’ve changed my mind. I have not. I am wholly against a change in program.”
“How can you say that?” My own shrill voice surprised me.
“I’ve known you for eight years, Sam. I’ve watched you grow, I’ve watched you succeed, and I’ve watched you retreat. I want the best for you, and with every fiber of my being, I am convinced that ‘the best’ is not more fiction, but finding your way around in the real world and its people.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Consider carefully. If the foundation is unwilling to alter your grant, you may accept or you may walk away. You always have a choice.”
“That’s not fair.”
Father John’s eyes clouded. “My dear, what in your life has ever come close to fair? That’s not how this life works.” He leaned forward and stretched his hands out across the desk. “I’m sorry, Sam. If I could protect you from any more pain, I would. But I can only pray and do the very best God calls me to do. If I’m wrong about this, I hope that someday you will forgive me.”
“ ‘My temper would perhaps be called resentful.—My good opinion once lost is lost forever.’ ” When Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t come through, one can always count on Mr. Darcy to provide the right response. I shook my head and, quoting no one, said, “I won’t forgive you, Father John. I don’t forgive.” And I walked out.
I don’t care if that was ungenerous, Mr. Knightley. He overstepped, and he’s wrong. So now I’m asking you: Will you let me decide?
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore