Chapter 13
A plain white envelope arrived in the mail,
mixed among the utility bills,
and the colorful grocery store flyers,
sitting innocently on the kitchen counter.
There was no return address printed on it,
and the handwriting was a messy,
and familiar scrawl,
that sent a sudden jolt of ice,
straight through my beating heart.
Diane was upstairs in the guest bedroom,
happily organizing her baking supplies,
and humming a cheerful tune,
giving me a rare moment of privacy.
I snatched the letter quickly,
my hands trembling slightly as I held it,
and I practically ran into my private study,
locking the heavy door behind me.
I stared at the sealed envelope for a long time,
feeling a strong urge to throw it away,
but a morbid,
and twisted curiosity forced me to open it,
tearing the paper with a sharp letter opener.
Inside was a single sheet of lined paper,
covered in hurried,
and desperate handwriting.
Dad,
the letter began abruptly,
I know you told me never to contact you,
and I know you hate me,
but I have nowhere else to turn,
and no one else to help me.
I did not get on the bus to Chicago,
because I want to prove to you both,
that I have truly changed,
and that I can be a good man.
I found a cheap room in a boarding house,
and I am looking for honest work,
doing whatever I can to survive.
Please just give me five minutes of your time,
meet me anywhere you choose,
and let me look you in the eye,
and apologize for destroying our family.
I don't want your money anymore,
I just want my parents back,
even if it takes the rest of my life,
to earn your forgiveness.
The letter ended without a signature,
just a dark smudge of ink at the bottom,
where a tear,
or perhaps a drop of sweat,
had stained the cheap paper.
I read the desperate words three times,
feeling a strange mixture of burning anger,
and a tiny,
and pathetic sliver of parental grief,
that refused to completely die.
He was a master manipulator,
a skilled liar who knew exactly what strings to pull,
and how to sound perfectly sincere,
while plotting his next betrayal.
I crumpled the letter into a tight ball,
my jaw clenching with intense rage,
and I tossed it into the small metal trash can,
grabbing a long match from the desk drawer.
I struck the match against the rough box,
watching the bright orange flame flare up,
and I dropped it onto the crumpled paper,
watching it burn into dark,
and curling ashes.
The smoke rose slowly in the air,
smelling faintly of burnt ink,
and I opened the study window to let it out,
erasing the only physical proof,
of his desperate plea.
I would not fall for his emotional traps,
and I would not let him near Diane,
even if he begged on his hands and knees,
in the freezing rain.
I washed my hands in the adjacent bathroom,
scrubbing them with harsh soap,
as if trying to wash away the memory of his words,
May you like
and I walked back out to the kitchen,
my mask of calm firmly back in place.
