Chapter 8 - The Letters from Prison
Six months later, summer had arrived in the Pacific Northwest.
Sarah sat at her desk in her home design studio, the french doors open to the garden breeze. Her business, Bright Heart Creative, had expanded, employing two assistant designers and securing national commercial branding clients.
A pile of mail sat on her desk. Among the business invoices and art magazines lay two plain white envelopes bearing blue ink stamps from the Department of Corrections.
One was from the Federal Correctional Institution in Oregon; the other was from the State Women's Facility.
Sarah picked up the letter from her sister Vanessa first.
She opened it. Inside were two pages written in hurried, tear-stained blue ink. Vanessa wrote about her life in prison, the kitchen duty she was assigned to, and the therapy classes she was attending.
...I know you probably hate me, Sarah, Vanessa wrote. And I don't blame you. Being in here made me realize how completely sick Mom's control over us was. She tried to write to me last month from the federal facility, asking me to file an appeal claiming you lied on the stand. I threw her letter in the trash. I am so sorry for what I did to Caleb. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope one day you'll let me send him a birthday card...
Sarah read the letter twice. She felt a faint, sad sting in her heart for the sister who had allowed herself to be twisted by Patricia’s greed, but she felt no urge to write back. Boundaries were not built out of anger; they were built out of clarity. She folded the letter, placed it in a storage folder marked Legal Records, and resolved to keep it for the future when Caleb was old enough to understand.
Then, Sarah picked up the second envelope—the one from Patricia.
She looked at her mother's handwriting on the front. For thirty years, that handwriting had dictated Sarah’s self-worth, dictated her fear, and dictated her shame.
Sarah didn't open it.
May you like
She held the envelope over her desk trash bin for a second. Then, she picked up a red marker, wrote across the front: REFUSED / RETURN TO SENDER, and set it back in the outgoing mail tray.
She didn't need to read Patricia’s excuses, Patricia’s rage, or Patricia’s guilt trips ever again. The power her mother had held over her life was officially, completely dead.
