Chương 5
The Last Letter Found Beneath the Floorboards Changed Everything They Believed About Home
The envelope was already open when Daniel Mercer found it hidden beneath the loose floorboard in his father's bedroom, and the name written across the front made his hands stop shaking for a reason he could not explain.
It was his own name.
For three minutes, he stood on his knees beside the old wooden dresser, staring at the envelope as if it might disappear if he looked away.
The house around him was quiet in the uncomfortable way empty houses became quiet after someone died.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
Just waiting.
Daniel had spent the last two days cleaning out the place because his younger sister refused to come back inside.
She had lasted twelve minutes after the funeral.
Then she walked into the kitchen, saw their father's coffee mug still sitting beside the sink, and left without saying goodbye.
"Somebody has to deal with it," she had told him over the phone.
She always made practical things sound like they were his responsibility.
Daniel had almost laughed because she was probably right.
He was forty-two years old, divorced, carrying a job he hated, and somehow still the person everyone called when something broke.
A leaking pipe.
A dead car battery.
A family argument that needed someone to absorb the impact.
He was the person people trusted because he rarely made anything worse.
The problem was that nobody ever asked what it cost him.
He reached for the envelope.
The paper felt old and slightly rough against his fingers.
His father's handwriting covered the front.
Daniel.
No last name.
No address.
Just Daniel.
His first instinct was anger.
Not sadness.
Not curiosity.
Anger.
His father had been dead for four days.
Four days since the hospital called.
Four days since Daniel had driven through rain to sit beside a man who had spent most of his life pretending he did not need anyone.
Four days since the final conversation between them had ended with Daniel saying something he could never take back.
You always make everything harder than it has to be.
His father had looked away.
Not angry.
Not hurt.
Just tired.
Daniel hated that expression more than anything.
Because it meant his father had heard him.
He carefully opened the envelope wider.
Inside was a single folded piece of paper.
Before he could unfold it, his phone buzzed on the floor beside him.
Maya.
His sister.
He watched the screen until it stopped.
Then it started again.
He answered.
"What?"
A pause.
"Nice to hear your voice too," Maya said.
Daniel closed his eyes.
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I am."
"You found something, didn't you?"
The question caught him off guard.
He looked down at the envelope.
"How would you know?"
"Because Dad never hid anything unless he was afraid somebody would find it."
Daniel looked around the room.
Old books.
Old photographs.
The chair where his father sat every evening.
The same chair where he refused to admit his hearing was getting worse because admitting it meant admitting he was getting older.
"What did you know?" Daniel asked.
Maya exhaled slowly.
"I don't know anything."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the answer."
"You always do this."
"Do what?"
"Talk like you're already halfway through a conversation I wasn't invited to."
Silence.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Outside the bedroom window, a truck passed on the street, shaking the glass slightly.
Daniel remembered being ten years old and lying awake in this room while his father repaired the window frame after a storm.
His father had worked until midnight.
Daniel had asked why he did not just hire someone.
His father had laughed.
Because then I'd have to admit I don't know how to fix everything.
At the time, Daniel thought it was a joke.
Now he wasn't sure.
Maya finally spoke.
"There are things Dad never talked about."
Daniel looked at the paper again.
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
"You just said there were things."
"I said there were things he never talked about."
"That's different?"
"Yes."
Her voice became sharper.
"Because sometimes not saying something is not the same as hiding something."
Daniel stood slowly.
The floorboard beneath him creaked.
"You knew about this."
"No."
"You knew he left something."
"No."
"Then why did you sound scared when I said I found something?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Daniel hated silence.
Silence was where his family kept everything.
The things they were too proud to admit.
The apologies they were too stubborn to give.
The questions they were too afraid to ask.
"I have to go," Maya said.
"No."
"What?"
"You don't get to disappear every time something gets uncomfortable."
Her laugh was quiet and bitter.
"That's funny coming from you."
The words landed harder than he expected.
Daniel sat on the edge of the bed.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you spent twenty years blaming Dad for shutting people out while you built your entire life around doing the exact same thing."
He wanted to argue.
He wanted to tell her she was wrong.
Instead, he looked at the envelope in his hand.
Because some part of him wondered if she wasn't.
"Come back here," he said.
"No."
"Maya."
"I can't."
"Why?"
Another pause.
Then her voice changed.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just tired.
"Because I don't know if I can handle finding out he loved us."
Daniel did not move.
The sentence was so unexpected that for a second he thought he misunderstood her.
"What?"
"I know that sounds awful."
"It does."
"I spent years being angry because anger was easier."
The room felt smaller.
"He wasn't a good father all the time," Maya continued.
"No."
"He hurt us."
"Yes."
"But if he left something that proves he cared, then I have to change the story I've been telling myself."
Daniel looked at the paper.
He understood that.
May you like
More than he wanted to.
Because he had spent years building a version of his father that allowed him to stay angry.
