Chapter 17 - Letters from Dad
Dad wrote every Sunday.
At first, I did not answer.
His letters contained no requests for money.
No pressure to visit.
No complaints about prison.
He wrote about books.
The men he met.
The financial-literacy class he began teaching.
The irony was obvious.
He acknowledged it himself.
I spent decades teaching people how to buy cars while failing to understand the cost of my own decisions.
Caleb answered regularly.
Mom answered cautiously.
I waited six months.
Then sent one page.
I am safe.
Ethan is well.
The company employees kept their jobs.
The charity is helping families again.
I am not ready to visit.
Dad replied:
Thank you for telling me the truth instead of giving me the answer I wanted.
A year after sentencing, I visited.
The room smelled like disinfectant and old coffee.
Dad looked smaller.
Not broken.
Human.
We sat across from each other.
He looked at my wedding ring.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust him?”
I thought.
“More because he knows trust can be damaged.”
Dad nodded.
“I thought good people never failed.”
“No.”
“Good people take responsibility after they fail.”
He smiled sadly.
“I’m still working on the first part.”
We spoke for forty minutes.
Before leaving, I showed him a photograph.
Mom handing keys to a family receiving an accessible van from the Open Road Fund.
Dad stared for a long time.
“She rebuilt it.”
“She returned it to what it was before you took over.”
He nodded.
“Better.”
At the door, he asked:
“Maya?”
I turned.
“If you ever renew your vows…”
I waited.
“I won’t ask to walk you.”
The words surprised me.
“Why?”
May you like
“Because it should be your choice.”
For the first time, Dad understood what the aisle had actually meant.
