Chapter 11: The Second Letter
In early summer a second letter arrived at Aunt Linda’s house.
She called me the same evening.
“It’s from your father this time,” she said. “Do you want me to read it?”
I considered refusing. Then I decided that hearing the words would cost less than wondering about them.
“Go ahead.”
The letter was shorter than my mother’s had been. My father wrote that they had been “giving me space,” that the family was willing to “move past the misunderstanding,” and that they hoped I would come home for a weekend so we could “talk like adults.” He mentioned that my brother had been asking about me. He did not apologize for the nine summers. He did not acknowledge that the exclusion had been deliberate and repeated. He framed my departure as a single overreaction rather than the final result of years of being treated as optional.
When Aunt Linda finished reading, the silence on the line felt familiar.
“I can return it,” she offered.
“Yes,” I said. “Return it.”
I did not draft a reply. There was no version of the past that could be revised by a weekend visit or a conversation that still refused to name what had actually happened. They wanted the interruption of my absence to end so the original arrangement could quietly resume. I had no interest in resuming it.
May you like
That night I cooked dinner, ate slowly, and washed the dishes while the sky outside my window turned the deep blue of early summer. Somewhere my parents were likely planning another trip. Somewhere my brother was living the continuation of a childhood that had always made room for him. Neither fact required anything from me.
I slept without dreaming of airports or matching shirts.
