Garrett goes still beside me. "Yeah?"
"Mailed it a couple of days ago. I don't know what I said, really. Just... that I'm trying. That I don't know if I can forgive him. That I'm willing to try."
"That's good, Van. That's really good."
"It doesn't feel good. It feels terrifying."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "Brave things usually do."
The letter from my father arrives six days later.
I stare at the envelope in my hands for a long time before I open it.
My name is written on the front in careful block letters—the handwriting of a man who's had twelve years to practice patience.
Dear Vanna,
I read your letter seven times. I'm reading it again right now, even as I write this.
You don't know how to be my daughter again. That's okay. I don't know how to be your father. I forgot how a long time ago, if I ever knew in the first place.
But I want to learn.
I'm proud of you. I never thought I'd get to say that. For years, I've been sitting in this cell, wondering if you were alive or dead, praying to a God I'm not sure I believe in that you'd find your way out of the darkness I helped put you in. And now you're writing to me. You're in rehab. You're pregnant.
You're breaking the cycle.
I can't undo what I did. I can't bring your mother back. I can't give you the childhood you deserved, or take away the years of pain I caused. But I can tell you this: addiction is a monster, but it's not invincible. I've been clean for twelve years. Twelve years of waking up every morning and choosing not to use. Twelve years of living with what I've done.
If I can do it, you can do it. You're stronger than me, Vanna. You always were.
Write to me again. Or don't. Whatever you need. I'll be here either way.
I love you. I know I don't have the right to say that anymore, but it's true. I never stopped.
Dad
The tears come before I can stop them. I sit on my bed, clutching the letter to my chest, and I cry.
For the mother I lost.
For the father I thought I'd never speak to again.
For the girl I used to be, before the drugs stole everything.
And somewhere in the middle of all that grief, I find something else.
Hope.
Group therapy on Thursday is harder than usual.
We're sitting in a circle—eight of us, plus Patricia—talking about family.
About the people we've hurt and the relationships we've broken.
About whether it's possible to rebuild what addiction destroyed.
"I got a letter from my father this week," I hear myself say.
