Chapter 13: Derek’s Note
Derek sent a letter in July—paper, not text—addressed to me alone.
He apologized for the garage, the truck, the assumption that my silence was consent. He wrote that Savannah’s fear of instability had made her bossy and that he had followed because it was easier than arguing with a woman holding a chore list and a father’s promise. He did not ask to return. He asked whether I wanted the cost of the degreaser reimbursed. I wrote back on a card: Garage is fine. Reimbursement unnecessary. Good luck with the night shift. I did not offer a relationship. I offered the end of a ledger. He did not write again. Closure can be that small and still complete.
May you like
Christopher found the letter on the counter and read it with my permission. “He’s more adult than I was,” he said. I said adulthood had been available to everyone in the hallway at 11:07; some had chosen it later than others. He accepted the sting because it was fair.
Work remained steady. I declined a committee that would have eaten my evenings. Evenings belonged to the garden, to books on the new shelves, to a marriage that was learning to ask before it assumed. The word assume had become a joke between us—dangerous, expensive, banned from logistics. We planned a weekend trip with a shared calendar invite, not a surprise. Surprises had lost their charm.
