Part 6: The Conditions

Two months later I asked June whether she knew if our father still wanted to send a letter. She said he had not asked again, but she believed he would if I invited it. I told her I did not want her to carry messages between us.

“I can give you his attorney's contact information,” she said. “He's used her for some family matters.”

I contacted the attorney and explained the conditions I had discussed with my counselor. I would consider reading one letter if it contained no request for a meeting or financial help. I wanted it delivered to my post office box, and I would not promise a reply.

The attorney said she could pass on the conditions but could not guarantee what her client would write. I understood. The decision to open the envelope would remain mine when it arrived.

My father sent the letter three weeks later. I left it unopened on the shelf for another week. When I was ready, I asked Mrs. Ellis to sit with me in the bookshop before opening time. She agreed and brought tea.

The letter was short. He acknowledged leaving me at the station and said he had told himself it would teach me independence. He wrote that he understood now that he had frightened me and failed to come back. He did not ask for money or a meeting.

One paragraph said he wished someone had taught him a different way to be a father. I felt anger at the sentence. It explained something about his life, but it did not explain why he had ignored the adults who told him I needed help.

Mrs. Ellis waited while I read it again. “You don't have to decide what it means today,” she said.

“I know. I wanted him to say he was wrong. He did.”

“And?”

“I don't know what comes after that.”

I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. I did not answer immediately. I told the attorney only that I had received it and would not be responding for now.

June invited me and Mrs. Ellis to visit for a weekend in spring. Sam had found a bird guide, and they wanted to learn the names of the birds in the garden. I accepted on the condition that we meet at their house without our father present. June said that was already the plan.

At the workshop, a student from the local school brought in a trumpet with a stuck valve. I explained the repair and gave her a written estimate. She asked if she could watch. I checked with her parent and showed her how I examined the mechanism without forcing it.

“Can you always fix them?” she asked.

“No. Sometimes a part needs replacing, and sometimes the cost is more than the instrument is worth to the owner.”

“What if they want it fixed anyway?”

“Then we talk about the options.”

The answer stayed with me after she left. Wanting a repair did not make every repair possible. It did not mean a person had to throw the whole instrument away either. The owner could decide what mattered and what they were willing to spend.

At home, I put my father's letter in a folder beside the copy of our mother's notebook. The two documents did not belong to the same conversation, but both were part of my history. I left space between them.