Chapter 7 - Letters from the Past
When Gemma was six months pregnant, a thick Manila envelope arrived in our mailbox, forwarded through Richard Miller’s office.
It contained a letter from Evelyn’s court-appointed social worker at the assisted living facility in Tucson where she was serving her house arrest. Attached to the cover letter were several handwritten notes from my mother.
I sat at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee while Gemma was out attending a prenatal yoga class. I opened the envelope and read the social worker's note first:
Dear Mr. Hayes,
As part of your mother’s court-mandated rehabilitation program, she was advised to write letters addressing the harm caused to her victimized family members. She has asked multiple times for these to be delivered to you. You are under no legal or moral obligation to read them or respond. We are simply fulfilling her administrative request.
I set the social worker's note aside and unfolded the yellowed notebook paper written in my mother's frail, shaky handwriting.
Mason,
I am writing this because the counselor says I must face what I have done, but every day in this place feels like a living death. Spencer barely speaks to me from prison. Valerie has filed for divorce from him and taken Timmy away to Texas. I am completely alone.
I sit in this small room every day and think about the house in Glendale. I think about how I treated Gemma. I told myself I was protecting Spencer, that a mother must do anything to save her child when he is drowning. But now I realize that in trying to save one son who was already lost, I destroyed the son who actually cared for me.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve it. I heard through Richard that Gemma is pregnant. If there is any mercy left in your heart, please just tell me if it is a boy or a girl. That is all an old woman asks before she dies.
Your mother,
Evelyn
I held the letter in my hand for a long time.
Two years ago, a letter like this would have filled me with intense guilt, second-guessing, and pain. I would have felt the familiar, toxic pull of obligation that Evelyn had cultivated in me since childhood—the belief that her happiness was my responsibility.
But looking at the letter now, I felt only a quiet, calm clarity.
Evelyn wasn't truly sorry for what she had done to Gemma; she was sorry for the consequences she was now forced to endure. She was sorry that her favoritism had backfired, that Spencer was behind bars, and that her cozy, controlling lifestyle had evaporated into a small room in a Tucson facility. She had called her crimes "protecting her child," yet she had felt zero hesitation when locking another mother's child in a dark room to be starved and humiliated.
When Gemma came home, her cheeks rosy from the cool mountain air, she saw the open envelope on the counter.
"What's that?" she asked softly, placing a hand over her round, beautiful bump.
"A letter from my mother," I said truthfully. "Her social worker sent it."
Gemma walked over, standing beside me. She didn't look at the paper with fear or anxiety anymore. "Do you want to respond to her?"
I folded the yellow pages neatly, walked over to the trash can, and dropped them inside.
"No," I said, putting my arms around Gemma from behind and resting my hands on her bump. "Our child doesn't need a grandmother who measures love by obedience and money. Our child only needs a family that protects them."
May you like
Gemma leaned her head back against my chest, breathing out a long, peaceful sigh. "Thank you, Mason."
We never opened another letter from Tucson. We closed the book on the past, refusing to allow old poison to contaminate the fresh air of our new life.
