Chapter 2 - The letter I never sent
I did not let Vanessa inside.
Not immediately.
She had crossed six months with a piece of paper in her hands.
That did not erase the last time she had been near my son.
“Where did you get that?”
She looked at the letter.
“Dad.”
My father.
Of course.
“What is it?”
Vanessa looked surprised.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Caleb stepped closer behind me.
“Mom?”
I turned.
“Sweetheart, go finish your homework.”
His eyes went to Vanessa.
Then to the letter.
His face changed.
Recognition.
That answered one question.
“Caleb.”
“I wrote it.”
My voice softened.
“When?”
He shrugged.
“After.”
“After the party?”
He nodded.
“Who did you give it to?”
“Grandpa.”
I looked back at Vanessa.
She seemed almost ashamed to be holding it.
“What does it say?”
She extended the page.
I did not take it.
“Read it.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Rachel.”
“You came here. Read it.”
She unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was large.
Uneven.
Some words spelled phonetically.
Vanessa began.
“Dear Aunt Vanessa.”
Her voice cracked on my name? No.
She started again.
“Dear Aunt Vanessa. I am sorry your vase broke. I did not mean to break it.”
Caleb stared at the floor.
Vanessa continued.
“I can help pay for it. I have forty-three dollars and twelve cents in my bank.”
I closed my eyes.
His little savings jar.
Birthday money.
Allowance.
Coins from Grandpa.
Forty-three dollars and twelve cents.
Vanessa’s voice became quieter.
“I can give you all of it.”
I looked at Caleb.
He would not meet my eyes.
Then:
“Please don’t be mad at my mom.”
My throat tightened.
“She kicked you because I made you mad.”
Vanessa stopped.
I said:
“Keep going.”
She swallowed.
“My mom works a lot and pays for my stuff. She doesn’t have eight thousand dollars because my dad lives somewhere else and Mom says rent costs too much.”
I covered my mouth.
Caleb looked embarrassed.
“Mom…”
I held out one hand.
Not now.
Vanessa continued.
“If somebody has to be in trouble it should be me because I broke it.”
Then the final line.
“Please don’t call us paupers because Mom says poor is not a bad person and we are okay.”
Silence.
Vanessa folded the letter.
Once.
Twice.
I looked at my son.
“How long did Grandpa have that?”
Caleb whispered:
“I gave it to him the next Sunday.”
“You saw Grandpa?”
“Dad took me.”
Eric.
Of course.
I had not known.
My father sometimes met Eric during Caleb’s weekends because they remained friendly.
I said:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Caleb’s lower lip trembled.
“I thought you’d be sad.”
There.
A six-year-old managing an adult’s feelings.
I crouched.
“Come here.”
He came.
I wrapped him in my arms.
“You never have to protect me from a letter you wrote.”
“I wanted to fix it.”
“I know.”
“I broke it.”
I held him tighter.
“The vase was an accident.”
Then I looked at Vanessa.
“She kept this for six months?”
“No.”
“Dad?”
Vanessa nodded.
“He never mailed it.”
“Good.”
“At first.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
Vanessa looked at the paper.
“He gave it to me three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I told him I was done with all of you.”
I laughed once.
“That sounds healthy.”
“I deserved that.”
The answer stopped me.
Vanessa did not usually say sentences like that.
She looked at Caleb.
“I’m not here to ask him to forgive me.”
Good.
“I’m not here to come inside.”
Better.
“I came because there are things you need to know about the vase.”
There.
I straightened.
“What things?”
May you like
Vanessa said:
“It wasn’t worth eight thousand dollars.”
