She wrote that the night before she left, she sat beside my crib for hours. She almost woke my father, almost confessed everything, almost begged him to tell her not to go.
But she was terrified.
Terrified of dying young. Terrified of leaving him with debts. Terrified that loving her would ruin his life.
And Grandma, she wrote, had always seemed so capable. My mother convinced herself that I would be safe.
I reached a line.
That my father would eventually recover, and everyone would be better off if she disappeared before her illness swallowed all of them.
Then I reached a line that made my vision blur.
I survived because of that money, but a part of me died the day I left you.
I lowered the letter.
It was permanent.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t keep reading.
She told herself it was permanent.
But as the years passed, she couldn’t live with that decision anymore.
She wanted to know me. And eventually, she began writing.
She wrote that she waited until I was old enough to understand before trying to contact me.
She apologized.
The first letter was simple.
She apologized.
She told me where she lived. She said she would answer any question I wanted to ask, no matter how painful. She said that if I ever wanted to see her, she would come.
And if I didn’t, she would understand.
A reply came.
Then she waited.
A reply came. I read that part twice.
According to my mother, I had written back.
“Stop writing to me.”
