I knew that handwriting.
The way my mother crossed her T’s. The slight curve at the end of every sentence. The small heart she used to draw beneath her name whenever she wrote me a note.
My knees suddenly felt weak.
I pulled out a chair and sat down.
The letter began:
My dearest Thomas,
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve had to leave before I could tell you everything I wanted you to know.
I wish I could be there when you turn thirteen. I wish I could watch you grow taller, complain about your messy room, and embarrass you by kissing your forehead in front of your friends.
Your father has promised to give you this letter on your thirteenth birthday. I’ve asked him several times because I want you to have something from me when you’re old enough to understand it.
But there are things I need you to know, whether he gives you this letter or not.
First, you were never difficult to love.
Not when you cried. Not when you asked too many questions. Not when you wanted me to stay beside your bed because you were afraid of the dark.
You were a little boy who needed his parents. That was never something to be ashamed of.
Your father has a difficult time showing his feelings. Since I became sick, he has grown angry at things he cannot control. Sometimes I worry he mistakes being strict for being strong.
I love him, Thomas. But I need you to understand something important.
You are not responsible for making your father happy. You are not responsible for fixing his sadness. And you should never have to earn the right to be treated with kindness.
If there comes a day when you feel alone, please remember your Aunt Diane.
I spoke with her about you. She promised me that you would always have a place in her home. She loves you as much as I do, and she knows what kind of boy you are becoming.
Be gentle, Thomas.
Read books. Ask questions. Help people when you can. Don’t let anyone convince you that being sensitive makes you weak.
And please, never measure your worth by whether somebody chooses to stay.
You are my greatest happiness.
Even when I’m no longer here to tell you, I will always be proud to be your mother.
All my love,
Mom
I stopped reading.
For a long time, I couldn’t move.
The refrigerator hummed. A truck rumbled past outside. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked.
Ordinary sounds.
But I was eight years old again, sitting beside my mother’s hospital bed, listening to her tell me that everything would be okay.
Then I was thirteen again, standing on that dirt road, watching my father’s truck disappear.
I had spent eighteen years wondering what was wrong with me.
Now I was holding a letter that proved my mother had worried about exactly that possibility.
She had known I might grow up believing I was difficult to love.
She had tried to protect me from that.
And my father had kept her words from reaching me.
I folded the letter carefully, pressing the creases with my fingertips.
Then I opened the newer one.
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the first sentence explained everything.
Thomas,
My name is Megan.
I know that’s a strange way to begin a letter to your own sister’s brother, but I’m not sure what else to call you.
I’ve known I had an older half-brother for as long as I can remember.
Dad told me you lived with Aunt Diane because you had trouble adjusting after Mom died. He said you didn’t like him, that you wanted to leave, and that you never wanted anything to do with us.
Whenever I asked why you never visited, he said you had made your decision.
I believed him.
I’m sorry.
Three weeks ago, Dad asked me to help sort through some old boxes in his study. He has been preparing to move into a smaller house, and he didn’t want to do it alone.
I found a sealed envelope with your name on it.
It was marked, “Thomas — Give this to him when he turns thirteen.”
Inside was your mother’s letter.
I also found the emergency custody paperwork from when you were thirteen. Dad had signed it.
I asked him why he never gave you the letter.
At first, he wouldn’t answer.
Then I asked him why he left you on a road and never went back.
He sat in his chair for several minutes without saying anything.
Finally, he told me the truth.
He said he was angry. He said he couldn’t handle the way you reminded him of Mom. He said he thought leaving you with Diane would make things easier for everyone.
I asked him how a thirteen-year-old boy was supposed to find his way home from an empty road.
He started crying.
I had never seen him cry before.
But I still don’t know what to do with that.
I’m getting married in October. I wanted to invite you because I don’t want another eighteen years to pass without even trying to know my own brother.
I don’t expect you to forgive Dad.
I don’t expect you to suddenly become part of a family you never knew.
And I certainly don’t expect you to pretend nothing happened.
I just want the chance to meet you.
If you decide to come, I’ll be happy.
If you decide not to, I will understand.
But there’s one thing I want you to know.
I didn’t know what happened to you. I wasn’t given a choice about knowing you.
And I don’t want to make the same mistake Dad made.
I hope we get to meet.
Love,
Megan
I read the letter twice.
Then I put both letters on the counter and walked outside.
