Chapter 8
Tommy was two and a half when we got the letter.
Plain white envelope, no return address, postmarked from the maximum security prison outside Huntsville.
I knew who it was from before I even opened it.
Mom.
I stood in the kitchen, holding the envelope, my hands shaking a little.
It had been two and a half years.
Two and a half years of peace.
Of happiness.
I’d almost forgotten she existed.
Almost.
Olivia walked in, holding Tommy’s hand, his face sticky with popsicle juice.
“What’s that?” she said, nodding at the envelope.
Her smile faded when she saw my face.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
Tore it open fast, like ripping off a band-aid.
Inside, two pages, written in her loopy handwriting, smudged in places like she’d cried while she wrote it.
My son, it started.
I know you hate me.
I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven.
But I’ve had a lot of time to think in here.
Two and a half years to think about what I did.
About how I let greed take over.
About how I hurt the only people who ever loved me.
I’m sick, Ethan.
The doctor says I have lung cancer.
Advanced.
Six months, maybe less.
I’m not writing to ask for money.
Or to get out of here early.
I just want to see you.
One last time.
To say I’m sorry.
To tell you I love you.
Before it’s too late.
Your mother,
Martha.
I read it twice.
Then handed it to Olivia.
She read it slow, her face unreadable.
Tommy tugged on her hand, babbling about wanting to go outside and play with his truck.
“Go on, baby,” she said, kneeling down to wipe his face.
“Daddy will be out in a minute.”
He ran off, his bare feet thudding on the hardwood floors.
Olivia stood up, leaning against the counter, the letter crumpled in her hand.
“What do you want to do?” she said.
I shook my head.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Part of me wants to go.
To hear her say she’s sorry.
To get closure.
But the other part… after everything she did.
To you.
To Tommy.
What if it’s another trick?
Another lie?”
Olivia was quiet for a minute.
She walked over and put her hand on my arm.
“Whatever you decide, I support you,” she said.
“If you want to go, I’ll drive you.
Wait in the car.
Whatever you need.
But if you don’t want to go?
That’s okay too.
You don’t owe her anything.
Not after everything.”
I thought about it for three days.
Tossed and turned at night, replaying the letter in my head.
Six months.
Maybe less.
If I didn’t go, I’d never see her again.
Never get to say the things I’d been holding in for two and a half years.
Never get to tell her how much she’d hurt us.
How close she’d come to destroying everything.
On the fourth day, I called the prison.
Booked a visit for the following Saturday.
Olivia drove me.
Held my hand the whole two-hour drive, not saying much, just letting me be quiet with my thoughts.
When we pulled into the prison parking lot, she squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be right here,” she said.
“Take all the time you need.”
The visiting room was cold, fluorescent lights buzzing, the air thick with the smell of old coffee and disinfectant.
I sat at a plastic table, my hands folded in front of me, waiting.
Ten minutes later, they led her in.
I almost didn’t recognize her.
Gone was the perfectly coiffed hair, the tailored clothes, the sharp, put-together woman I’d known my whole life.
Her hair was thin, gray at the roots, cut short in a harsh prison bob.
Her face was gaunt, her skin sallow, dark circles under her eyes.
She was thinner, too.
The orange jumpsuit hung loose on her frame.
She walked slow, leaning on a guard’s arm, like every step hurt.
She sat down across from me.
Stared at me for a long minute, like she was memorizing my face.
Then she started crying.
Quiet, ragged sobs that shook her whole body.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse, rough.
“I’m so, so sorry.
I was wrong.
So wrong.
I let the money make me crazy.
I hurt Olivia.
I hurt that baby.
I hurt you.
I don’t expect you to forgive me.
I just needed you to know I’m sorry.”
I sat there, watching her cry.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel anger.
Didn’t feel fear.
Just… nothing.
Empty.
Like all the emotion I’d ever had for her was gone, used up in the months she’d spent hurting us.
When she stopped crying, I leaned forward a little.
My voice was steady.
No anger.
No sadness.
Just calm.
“I’m not here to forgive you,” I said.
“I’m here to tell you that you lost.
You lost everything.
Your freedom.
Your family.
Your son.
Olivia and Tommy?
They’re my whole world.
They’re happy.
They’re safe.
And you will never, ever get near them again.
Not in this life.
Not in the next.
You did this to yourself.
No one else.
You have to live with it.
And when you die?
You die alone.
Because I’m not coming back.
Not ever.”
Her face crumpled.
She opened her mouth to say something, but I stood up.
Turned my back on her.
Walked out of the visiting room without looking back.
Olivia was waiting by the car, leaning against the hood, when I came out.
She didn’t ask what happened.
Just opened her arms, and I walked into them, holding her tight, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, the smell of home.
“Can we go home?” I said, my voice muffled in her hair.
May you like
She kissed my cheek.
“Let’s go home.”
