Dear, Ms. Street

I should be replying to the piles of letters that you have so thoughtfully sorted for my review. Unfortunately, I find that your knack for organization does not make this stack of letters look less daunting or more appealing. I've opened the first few: a thank you letter from the Davenports (the settlement we worked on last month), an invitation to a charity gala (which we must attend as Judge Connolly is host— you can buy a new evening gown to soften the blow), etc., etc. So on and so forth. But now I'm boring you, because you've read these letters already.

The fact of the matter is, Ms. Street, you're the reason I can't continue with this work tonight. I try to focus, but I hear you now in the bathroom giving Emily Kaye her bath. I hear splashing and coos with laughter. Were we in over our heads? Are we still? Emily is practically being raised in the office, I'm bringing work home at night to keep up, and I — well, I'm fairly certain her first words will either be "subpoena" Uncle Paul," or "murder" and I am not too pleased with any of those options.

Truthfully, Della, I think I am just trying to make myself feel guilty. I saw my ring on your finger tonight as you took notes— that old, pinky ring. It took me back to when I asked you to be my wife and you said, "no." The first time. Or the third time. Or the tenth time. I lost count. You were worried that when we got married that everything would change. I wanted to argue but I stopped myself.

Emily is done with her bath now. I hear you in my old study— the new nursery— as you carry out her nightly routine. I hear her gentle coos in response to your voice. She hangs on to every word you say. I try to too. She'll be asleep soon. I realize how much has changed. You were right (as always). I'll never forget when you finally said "yes." And that's the funny thing. Nothing changed. Nothing really, other than Ms. Street was no longer my secretary and Mrs. Mason had taken her place.

I think what I'm trying to say, Della, is that everything has changed and nothing has changed. The woman that sorts these letters, the secretary that follows me into courtroom battles, the wife that loves me well, the mother of Emily Kaye. No matter what role you inhabit my sentiment is still the same—- my dear, Ms. Street.

I keep fighting the urge to come peak in on you and Emily. I don't think I'll fight it anymore. I'll rock Emily to sleep, a luxury I've had to neglect the past couple of weeks thanks to the Turner case. Then I think I'll crawl into bed next to you and sleep. Then I'll wake up in the morning— next to you.

Love, Perry