Garrett came to see me last week. He told me about his visit with you. He said you've been clean for years now. He said you want to reconnect.
I don't know if I can forgive you. I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at you without seeing Mom's body, without remembering all the ways you failed us. But I'm writing this letter because my counselor says holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
So I'm trying to let go. One word at a time.
I'll write again when I figure out what else to say.
Vanna
I fold the letter before I can change my mind and seal it in an envelope.
The facility will mail it for me.
By this time next week, my father will be holding these words in his hands, reading them in his cell, knowing that his daughter is finally reaching out.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
But I walk to the front desk anyway and hand the envelope to the woman behind the counter.
She smiles at me like she knows what this costs, and maybe she does.
Half the people in here are trying to repair relationships they destroyed.
Half of us are writing letters we never thought we'd write.
"It gets easier," she says.
I'm not sure I believe her.
Saturday comes with gray skies and the promise of snow.
Garrett arrives at ten sharp, apparently willing to stay the whole time.
I'm waiting in the lobby when he walks through the door, and the sight of him—leather cut over a flannel shirt, beard a little longer than last week, eyes scanning the room until they find me—makes something loosen in my chest.
"Hey, darlin'." He pulls me into his arms, and I breathe him in.
Leather and oil and something warm underneath that's just him.
"Hey yourself."
We find our usual spot by the window, and I curl into his side like I always do.
His hand finds my stomach automatically now, palm flat against the small curve that's just starting to show.
"How's our little one?" he asks.
"I think they're doing good in there. The nausea still gets me sometimes though."
Garrett grins, and God, I've missed that grin.
The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look ten years younger. "Already causing trouble. Definitely takes after his mama."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling too.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching the snow start to fall outside the window.
Then Garrett shifts, reaching into the inside pocket of his cut. "Got something for you. From the club."
