Part 5: The Letter Afterward

The morning after the wedding, Priya called to say that my father had given her a sealed envelope addressed to me. She had not accepted it on my behalf. She asked whether I wanted her to keep it, return it, or pass it to June.

“What's inside?” I asked.

“I don't know. He said it was an apology, but I haven't opened it.”

I asked her to return it for now. I did not want a letter delivered through a friend to become a new way around the boundary we had set. Priya said she would tell him that I was not accepting it and would contact him only if I chose to.

June called later. She thanked me for coming and said she had seen Sam stop our father from approaching. She asked whether I was angry with her for inviting him.

“No. You told me he would be there, and you followed the plan.”

“I was afraid the plan would ruin the day.”

“It let me be there for it.”

We talked about the cake and the friend who had rescued me from the question about my absence. June said the friend had been instructed only to change the subject, not to invent a story. I appreciated that. I did not want my history turned into a family secret managed by someone else.

Back at the workshop, I had a clarinet with a sticking key waiting on the bench. I examined the mechanism, identified the bent part, and called the customer before ordering a replacement. The work had a beginning and an end that were easier to see than family conversations.

Mrs. Ellis asked how the wedding had gone. I told her June had been happy, the cake had enough cinnamon, and I had left before the final song.

“That sounds like you made the right length of visit,” she said.

A week later June sent a copy of our mother's notebook. The original would remain with her, but she had scanned the pages I wanted. She included a separate note: Dad asked if I would forward another letter. I told him no. I will not be the messenger unless you ask me to.

I read her note twice. When we were children, June had often been expected to keep peace between adults. She was no longer doing that work for them.

I called my counselor and scheduled an appointment. I wanted to talk about whether I might ever accept a letter, not because my father had earned an answer on his timetable, but because I wanted to understand my own choices.

At the appointment, I described the bus station and the years afterward. The counselor did not ask me to forgive him. She asked what I would need in order to feel able to read a letter without feeling trapped into replying.

I said I would need to choose when, have someone I trusted nearby, and know that the letter would not contain a request for money or a demand for a meeting. She suggested I could communicate those conditions if I ever wanted to, while recognizing that I could not control what he wrote.

I left without making a decision. At the workshop, I repaired the clarinet and called the customer. The key moved freely when I tested it. Some things could be adjusted with a tool and a careful hand. The rest would take the time I chose to give it.