Chapter 9 - The Letter
A week after Leo’s birthday, a small envelope arrived in the mail. It had no return address, only a federal prison stamp from the state penitentiary.
It was from Julian.
I sat at my desk in my home office, looking down at the cheap, lined yellow paper.
Vivian,
I am writing this from my cell. I know you probably won't read this, or maybe you'll burn it. You have every right to.
Every day in here is hell. Mother doesn't speak to me anymore; she blames me for everything, and I blame her. The other inmates know what I did to my pregnant wife, and they treat me like trash.
Last night, I saw a picture of you and Leo in a business magazine in the prison library. You looked radiant. Leo looks just like me, but he has your eyes. Your strength.
I realized that I threw away the only genuine thing I ever had in my life for money and my mother's approval. Now I have neither.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't deserve it. I just wanted you to know... you were right. I was a coward.
Julian
I read the letter slowly, line by line.
A year ago, reading those words might have given me a sharp surge of bitter satisfaction. But today, reading them, I felt... nothing. No anger. No hatred. Just a profound sense of closure.
I folded the yellow paper back into the envelope, picked up my lighter, and walked out onto the back patio.
I held the edge of the envelope over a metal ash tray and struck the flame.
The paper caught fire quickly, turning into bright orange embers before crumbling into soft gray ash that was caught by the sea breeze and carried away into the ocean sky.
May you like
I turned back toward the house. Inside, I could hear Ethan and Leo playing a game of building blocks in the living room, their warm laughter echoing through the hall.
I didn't need Julian's regret to heal. I had healed the moment I realized that my worth was never defined by how they treated me, but by how fiercely I chose to love myself and my son.
