Chapter 15 - Mom's Letters Stay in the Blue Box
Mom writes Ethan once a month.
She writes me less often.
I read mine.
Sometimes answer.
Sometimes don't.
Her letters changed over the years.
At first:
I was afraid.
Then:
Gary controlled me.
Then eventually:
I let fear become permission.
That was closer.
She never asks Ethan to forgive her anymore.
That helps.
His letters go into a blue storage box in Leah's office.
Unopened.
Not destroyed.
Ethan knows they're there.
When he turned twelve, he asked:
“Do I have to read them before she gets out?”
“No.”
“What if she thinks I hate her?”
“That is not your job to fix.”
He nodded.
Then:
“Do you hate her?”
I thought about it.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you love her?”
“Sometimes.”
He frowned.
“You can do both?”
“Apparently.”
He considered that.
Then returned to his cereal.
That is our family now.
Less dramatic than the kitchen.
Better.
I still remember Gary's belt.
The broken glass.
Mom in the doorway.
The phone vibrating across the table.
Sam Reed's voice:
Step away from the kids.
For years I told myself that was the moment somebody finally came to save us.
It wasn't.
Sam helped.
Leah helped.
Police helped.
Therapists helped.
Lawyers helped.
But no one person opened the door and repaired our family.
Recovery was boring.
Forms.
Appointments.
Medication.
School.
Court.
Groceries.
Homework.
Saying the same true thing to Ethan fifty times until his body finally believed it.
You did not cause Dad's death.
You did not send Mom away.
You were a child.
The only part I still cannot answer for him is what happens when Mom eventually comes home.
Maybe Ethan will read every letter.
Maybe one.
Maybe none.
Maybe he'll want to see her.
Maybe he won't.
That decision finally belongs to him.
The blue box stays closed.
No one hands him a key.
May you like
No one tells him when he is ready.
And nobody in this family will ever beat an answer out of him again.
