Chapter 9 - The Letter
One year later.
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in late spring.
I sat at the oak desk in my father’s library, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at two-year-old Grace, who was running through the grass in a yellow sundress, chasing a golden retriever puppy my father had bought her for her birthday.
Dad was sitting on the lawn chair, throwing a tennis ball for the puppy, his hearty laughter carrying across the yard.
A small white envelope sat on my desk, delivered in the morning mail.
It bore a return address from the Illinois Department of Corrections.
It was a letter from Julian.
I picked it up, my hands completely steady. I didn't feel a tremor in my fingers. I didn't feel a surge of panic in my chest.
I broke the paper seal and pulled out the single sheet of lined notebook paper.
Evelyn,
I am writing this from my cell in Joliet. I know you probably don't want to read this, but my parole advisor suggested I write to apologize for what I did to you.
I lost everything. My career, my house, my reputation, my mother’s freedom. I realize now that I was sick. I was angry at the world, and I took it out on you because you were gentle.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I am paying for every second of pain I caused you. I hear your father’s voice in my head every single night.
I hope the baby is healthy.
Julian.
I read the letter through once.
Then I folded it back up, slipped it into the brass ash tray on my desk, and picked up a wooden match.
I struck the match against the box, watching the yellow flame burst into life, and touched it to the corner of the paper.
The fire caught instantly, curling the black ink into grey ash, destroying every remaining word until nothing was left but a small pile of dust.
I blew gently on the ashes, watching them scatter out the window into the green garden below.
I stood up from the desk, pulled a thin wool cardigan over my shoulders, and walked out onto the sunlit porch.
Grace saw me stepping onto the grass and immediately abandoned her puppy, running toward me on her chubby legs with her arms stretched wide.
“Mommy! Mommy! Look!” she squealed, holding up a small yellow dandelion she had pulled from the lawn.
I dropped to my knees on the soft grass, gathering my daughter into my arms, pulling her close against my heart, kissing her warm, sweet-smelling cheeks.
“It’s beautiful, Grace,” I whispered, looking into her bright blue eyes. “It’s the most beautiful flower in the world.”
Dad walked over, his combat boots rustling through the grass, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked down at us, a quiet, profound peace resting in his grey eyes.
“Everything alright, Evie?” he asked gently.
May you like
I looked up at my father—the colonel who had pulled back a blue blanket and saved my life, the man who had taught me that true strength is built on love, not fear.
“Everything is perfect, Dad,” I smiled, taking his hand as he helped me stand up. “Everything is right where it belongs.”
