Chương 3
Instead, it made his stomach tighten.
Because people who wanted forgiveness usually explained themselves.
People who wanted control usually explained themselves too.
He kept reading.
Thomas wrote about the night he left. About the hospital bills. About losing his job after his accident. About the fear that came with watching his savings disappear.
Daniel knew parts of that story.
He had heard pieces from his mother.
His father had struggled.
His father had been overwhelmed.
His father had made mistakes.
But then the letter changed.
Thomas wrote that he had not left because Emily asked him to.
He had not left because the marriage was over.
He had not left because he stopped loving them.
Daniel stared at the page.
Then he turned it over.
The next page was missing.
Not blank.
Missing.
The torn edge was uneven.
He searched the envelope.
Nothing.
A piece of the truth was sitting in his hands, and someone had removed the part that explained it.
The next morning, Claire found him standing in his kitchen holding the letter.
She did not knock.
She never knocked.
“You still have the same habit,” she said.
Daniel looked up.
“What habit?”
“Pretending you’re not stressed while doing extremely stressed things.”
“I’m reading a letter.”
“You cleaned your entire apartment before reading it.”
He looked toward the living room.
The shelves were organized.
The floor was vacuumed.
A pile of old magazines had somehow become arranged by date.
Claire pointed at it.
“Exactly.”
Daniel sighed.
“You came here to insult my cleaning?”
“I came here because you called me at two in the morning and hung up before I answered.”
He looked away.
He had forgotten that.
Claire saw the letter.
Her expression changed.
“What did he say?”
Daniel hesitated.
“That he didn’t leave because Mom wanted him gone.”
The room became still.
Claire pulled out a chair.
“What?”
Daniel handed her the letter.
She read silently.
Her eyes moved faster than his had.
When she reached the torn page, she stopped.
“Where’s the rest?”
“I don’t know.”
“You found it like this?”
“Yes.”
Claire looked at the envelope.
Then at him.
“Did someone else know this was there?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s becoming your favorite answer.”
Daniel almost responded, but he stopped.
Because she was right.
He hated not knowing.
Not knowing had been the shape of his entire relationship with his father.
Why did he leave?
Why did he stop calling?
Why did he send birthday cards for years and then suddenly disappear?
Why did his mother never explain?
The unanswered questions had become easier to live with than the possibility of answers.
Claire placed the letter on the table.
“You need to find out if there are other pages.”
Daniel laughed quietly.
“Of course that’s what you say.”
“What else would I say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something normal.”
“Like?”
“Like forget it. Let the dead stay dead.”
Claire looked at him.
“Would you actually do that?”
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
The problem was that the missing page changed the entire meaning of the letter.
If Thomas had simply wanted to explain himself, why hide anything?
The question followed Daniel back to the house.
He searched the upstairs hallway again.
Not carefully.
Desperately.
He checked behind the loose floorboard.
Nothing.
He looked through old boxes in the closet.
Nothing.
He searched through his father’s desk, a place he had avoided because it felt too personal.
Inside were bills, receipts, repair manuals, and a small notebook filled with dates.
Most were ordinary.
Oil changes.
Doctor appointments.
House repairs.
Then Daniel noticed a pattern.
Every few months, his father wrote the same initials.
E.M.
Emily Mercer.
His mother.
Beside one entry, Thomas had written:
She still thinks I never knew.
Daniel stared at the sentence.
The front door creaked.
He turned.
An older woman stood there holding a grocery bag.
Ruth Callahan.
The neighbor.
She had lived nearby since before Daniel was born.
“You shouldn’t leave doors open,” she said.
Daniel looked at the door.
“I didn’t.”
Ruth looked uncomfortable.
“Then it opened.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
She gave a small shrug.
“Old houses do what they want.”
Her eyes moved to the notebook in his hand.
Something changed in her face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You found that.”
Daniel noticed the wording.
Not “you found it.”
“You found that.”
“What is it?”
Ruth placed the grocery bag on the floor.
“Your father’s notebook.”
“I can see that.”
She looked at him.
“You sound like him.”
Daniel disliked how quickly the comment bothered him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you answer questions you don’t want to answer.”
The old irritation came back.
The same irritation he had carried for years.
Everyone seemed to know something about Thomas.
Everyone except him.
“Did you know about the letter?”
Ruth did not respond immediately.
That was enough.
Daniel stepped closer.
“You knew.”
“I knew your father wrote many things.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
The honesty made him angrier.
Ruth looked toward the hallway.
“Thomas spent years believing that explaining himself would only make things worse.”
“And was he right?”
She looked back at Daniel.
“I don’t know.”
The answer surprised him.
He expected defense.
An excuse.
Something.
Instead, Ruth looked tired.
“Your father made choices. Some were because he was scared. Some were because he was selfish. Both things can be true.”
Daniel looked down at the notebook.
“What was he hiding?”
Ruth was quiet.
Then she said, “The problem with your father was that he thought protecting people and controlling information were the same thing.”
The sentence stayed with Daniel.
Because it sounded less like forgiveness.
More like an accusation.
That night, Daniel found another entry in the notebook.
A date from six months before Thomas died.
A phone number.
And three words written underneath.
Ask Emily why.
May you like
Daniel sat at the kitchen table until the coffee beside him went cold.
For years, he had believed the mystery was why his father left.
