The words sat between us.
“Thank you for saying that,” I said finally. “I can’t tell you it doesn’t matter, because it does. It shaped who I am in ways I’m still figuring out.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not closing the door, Dad. I need to see change, not just words. Real change. If you can show me that, maybe we can build something.”
He nodded.
“I’ll try,” he said. “I promise I’ll try.”
We sat there for another hour, talking more openly than we ever had.
It was a beginning.
Fragile.
Uncertain.
But real.
The letter from my mother arrived on April twentieth.
Handwritten.
Three pages.
Her familiar cursive slanted across lavender stationery.
I opened it at my kitchen table with a cup of tea, bracing myself for whatever version of reality she had constructed.
Dear Myra,
I’ve started this letter six times. Each time I tear it up because the words don’t come out right. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’ve spent so many years saying the wrong things that I don’t know how to say the right ones anymore.
