The Correspondences of Killaen Maunsell Van Rensselaer

Elizabeth van Rensselaer

Kiliaen,

I am leaving. There is nothing more to be said, but I will say it regardless, because I truly believe the man I love is still in there, deep down. I don’t know what’s going through your head anymore. I don’t know why you do the things you do. I have done my best to ignore the things the other wives say about you. The horrible things they say about you. It’s none of my business, I know. I can’t fathom the pressure, or begin to understand the sacrifies you make for the country. I have no right to judge the decisions forced upon you. But the deal was always you keep that stuff at the office, and that hasn’t been true for a while, Kiliaen. Whoever wakes up every morning next to me is someone I don’t even recognize.

The constant talk of legacy, of some forgotten past that no longer matters, as if Euphemia’s childhood wasn’t passing unnoticed right before your very eyes, that I could handle, because at least I would be there for her when you were not. I could tolerate the long months of absence, the sudden and unexplained trips to some village halfway around the world, even the blatant affairs that happened right in front of me, these were all burdens I beared without issue.

But then you started to drink again. You started to talk about your work at home. Do you even remember? Euphemia, your own daughter, is scared. She is scared of her own father. I don’t know if you were telling truth, or if you were just drunk, but it’s too much. I would rather she grow up fatherless, never knowing you existed, than suffer through another night like that. She doesn’t need to know about the things you’ve done.

I do love you, Killiaen. I swear I do. But I no longer trust you. I am taking Euphemia. Please do no try to find us.

—Elizabeth