Chapter 8 - Letters from the Cold
In the spring of the second year, two letters arrived in the mail. Both were addressed to me, but the handwriting was vastly different.
The first was from my mother. It was written on cheap stationery—not her usual heavy cream cardstock. It was short, stiff, and defensive. She mentioned that the Connecticut winters were dreadful for her arthritis, and that the local garden club was "dreadfully middle class." There was no apology, no mention of Lily, and no acknowledgment of the pain she had caused. It was simply an inventory of her current discomforts, a plea for an increased allowance masked as a health update.
I handed it to Daniel. "What do you think?"
"I think she misses the stage, not the players," Daniel said, setting it down. "The stipend is more than enough for her medical needs. If she wants comfort, she’ll have to find it in humility, which is a currency she hasn't learned to spend yet."
The second letter was from my father.
It wasn't a demand or a complaint. It was a single page, written in a shaky, aging script that looked nothing like the sharp, commanding signature that used to terrify me.
“Sarah,” it read. “I watched the news segment on the new children’s center last night. They interviewed the architect, and he mentioned Lily’s input on the design. I sat in the library here for a long time afterward. My father always told me that a building is only as strong as its foundation, and I thought he meant the money. I think I finally understand what he meant by the child. I don't expect you to forgive me. I wouldn't forgive me either. But please know that I am... looking at things differently now. — R.V.”
I held the paper for a long time.
"Are you going to answer him?" Lily asked, coming up behind me. She had grown an inch over the winter, her shoulders straighter, her inhaler rarely needed these days.
"Not yet," I said softly, folding the letter and placing it in a drawer. "A change of heart takes time to prove itself. But it’s a start."
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"If he wants to visit sometime," Lily said, looking out the window at the blooming cherry blossoms, "he can. But he has to sit at the kitchen table, not the dining room."
I smiled, a deep, blooming warmth spreading through my chest. "The kitchen table it is."
