Part 4: The Other Letters

I met Richard in a public café near the station. He arrived early, wearing the same charcoal coat he wore to family events when he wanted to appear relaxed. He ordered coffee for himself and waited until I had chosen my own.

“There were more letters,” he said.

“How many?”

“Two after the first. I put them away.”

I had written three times during my first year away. When no answer came, I assumed Lucy was angry or needed space. I sent birthday cards to the house for another two years, then stopped when one came back marked undeliverable.

“Did she see any of them?”

“No.”

The answer came without the defensiveness I expected. Richard looked at his cup. “I told myself she was too young to be in the middle. Then she grew older, and I didn't know how to admit what I'd done.”

“Where are the letters now?”

“In the office. I'll give them to her.”

“Ask her first. They're hers to decide about.”

He frowned, then nodded. We sat in silence while a barista called out orders. The normal noise made our conversation feel less like a courtroom. I was not there to pronounce a sentence. I wanted him to understand that his explanation did not make the decision acceptable.

He asked about my work. I told him I supervised a team that prepares airlift plans and coordinates with civilian agencies during emergencies. I did not list awards or deployments. He listened, although his attention wandered when I described the months of training behind a single successful mission.

“I thought you wanted to fly away from us,” he said.

“I wanted to serve. Leaving home was the cost you put on that choice.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. I did not need him to agree immediately. I needed him to stop telling me what I had intended.

When I returned to base, an exercise was underway. A storm scenario had closed a runway and displaced families from a coastal town. Our planners had to find alternate routes for medical supplies and coordinate with local authorities. One young captain suggested a route that looked faster on the map but relied on a bridge already marked unavailable.

I asked her to show the team how she had reached the conclusion. Together we found the outdated layer in the map. She looked relieved when I thanked her for explaining it.

“No one sees every problem alone,” I told her. “That's why we work through the plan together.”

That evening Lucy called. Richard had contacted her about the letters and offered to send them through her attorney. She had asked him to hold them until she was ready.

“He also withdrew the bakery loan offer,” she said.

I waited. She sounded disappointed, but not surprised.

“Mateo and I are going to look at a smaller space. It may take longer.”

“Do you want me to come down this weekend?”

“I'd like that. But not to fix it for us.”

“Understood.”

After we hung up, a message appeared from Richard: I found something else in the folder. It has your mother's name on it. I stared at the screen. Our mother had died when Lucy was twelve. Whatever Richard had found, it belonged to more than his version of the past.