"Now. While I still have the bourbon in me and your voice in my head."
Talia nods. She stays on the couch, close enough to keep me from being alone with it and far enough to let me choose the next move.
I slide off the counter and kneel on the floor. Open my bag. Take out the envelope.
White. Standard. The dead name in block letters. Three weeks of carrying it, of the name sitting in the dark of the zippered compartment.
I turn it over. My fingers find the seal. The paper tears.
One page. Handwritten. Block letters. The penmanship of a man who's had eight years of prison time to practice making his words look clean.
I read it.
I've been thinking about you. I hope you're well. I know you've built a life for yourself and I'm proud of what you've become. A father never stops caring about his daughter, no matter what has happened between them.
Healing requires communication, and the distance between us has gone on long enough. I've done the work. Eight years of reflection. I've changed, and I'd like the chance to show you that.
For now, I'm in Briarcliff. I'll be here for a while. If you're open to it, I'd like to see you. Just a conversation. No pressure. I'll leave the when and where entirely up to you.
Below the text, a phone number. The 413 area code.
I read it twice. The second time, the words don't change. Calm. Measured. Reasonable. The tone is careful. Possessive under the polish.A father never stops caring about his daughter.As though the caring is the relevant fact. As though the caring wasn't the hand that broke my ribs and the voice that explained, patiently, why the breaking was my fault.
I've done the work. Eight years of reflection.
Those are the same eight years that ended with a parole board deciding that good behavior was sufficient reason to release a man who put his thirteen-year-old daughter in a hospital bed.
I'm in Briarcliff. I'll be here for a while.
Settled. Waiting. The patience of a man who has had eight years to plan and the discipline to execute slowly. Calls first, testing the perimeter. Then the envelope, establishing proximity. Then the letter, the reasonable invitation. Same method. Cleaner tone.
I put the letter on the floor. My hands are shaking harder than they did with the 413 calls. The unknown was easier to carry.
"Maya," Talia says from the couch, her voice steady.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking. And that's allowed."
I close my eyes.Four in. Four hold. Four out.Two cycles. Three. The breathing settles. The shaking slows.
"He's in Briarcliff," I say. "He's settled. He's waiting."
"I heard."
"He wants to see me."
"He wants access. That's different."
My fingers curl against my palms.Wanting to seesounds like care.Wanting accessopens the door to the ambulance, the courtroom, the name change, the eight years of sealed records a single envelope just unsealed.
"What do you want to do?" Talia asks.
"I want to send this to the parole officer and watch the system do its job."
"That's one option."
"I want to burn it."
