Chapter 26 - Catherine Finds Her Own Letter
Catherine found the letter she never sent in a shoebox under her bed.
Not the train station letter.
Another one.
Written during the second year away.
When Annie was six.
When the shelter had lost funding.
When Catherine worked mornings cleaning offices, afternoons at a church reception desk, evenings doing catering prep, and nights lying awake while Annie slept with both hands under her cheek.
The paper was folded four times.
Soft at the creases.
Victor’s name across the top.
She had written it and never mailed it because Maris’s threats had already taught her hope could be used as evidence of instability.
Victor,
Annie asked today whether your hands still smell like sawdust after job sites. I told her yes because I did not know what else to say.
I am so tired that sometimes I am angry at you before I remember I love you.
I do not know if you are cruel or trapped. I do not know which answer hurts less.
She asks if you would like her drawings. I say yes. I keep them in a folder because I am afraid sending them into your house means your mother will throw them away.
I cannot keep telling her you are coming.
I cannot make myself tell her you are not.
Catherine stopped reading there.
She sat on the floor and pressed the page to her chest.
Victor found her twenty minutes later.
He had learned not to panic at tears immediately.
“What do you need?” he asked.
She handed him the letter.
He read it standing beside the bed.
By the time he finished, his face had gone pale.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Catherine shook her head.
“I know that part.”
He nodded.
Of course.
The phrase had become too small years ago.
She looked at the shoebox.
“There are drawings in here.”
Victor sat slowly.
Annie’s drawings.
Not the ones from after.
Before.
Houses.
Stick figures.
Dogs they did not own yet.
A tall man with black hair.
A small girl holding something yellow.
On the back of one, Catherine had written:
She says this is Daddy carrying the sun because he works where buildings touch it.
Victor covered his mouth.
Catherine watched him break.
Not because she wanted him to suffer.
Because some grief had waited too long without witness.
“She loved you through my anger,” Catherine said.
Victor shook his head.
“I didn’t deserve that.”
“No. But she did it anyway.”
He looked at the drawings.
“Can I show her?”
Catherine thought about it.
“Ask her.”
They did.
Annie was twenty-eight then, home for a weekend, sitting at the kitchen counter eating toast.
She listened.
Then looked at the shoebox.
“My old drawings?”
Catherine nodded.
“From before Dad came back.”
Annie touched the lid.
Then pulled her hand away.
“I want to see them. But not tonight.”
Victor nodded.
Catherine nodded.
No pressure.
Three weeks later, Annie opened the box.
She laughed at the dog.
Cried at the sun.
Then took one drawing and placed it on the refrigerator.
The tall man carrying light.
Victor stood in front of it for a long time.
Annie came beside him.
“I guess I remembered you bigger than you were.”
He looked at her.
“That’s fair.”
She leaned against his shoulder.
“Good thing you grew into it.”
Victor cried.
Annie sighed.
“Bread and crayons. Your emotional range is very specific.”
May you like
He laughed through tears.
The drawing stayed on the refrigerator for years.
