Sitting on my empty desk is a white envelope. The handwriting scrawled across it is all too familiar, my father’s. The printing is capitalized, big and boxy. It fills me with a sense of panic and stops me in my tracks, even though I know what lies inside. I’ve read the letter hundreds of times, and scanned meticulously through each photo. Searching to see what went wrong. Everything about the envelope is ordinary; except nothing about the circumstance is. Written to Children’s hospital, and the return address a place that I once called home. There is a smudged ink stamp across the front “Ministry of Children and Family Development” with the date it was received at the front desk. Beneath the crinkled page are thirty-two photos, the letter has been previously read, and approved by hospital staff. I debate whether or not I should open it and read it, again. I’ve lost track how many times I have. While reading the letter I immediately feel guilty
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I have been here for twenty eight days. A group of us are watching television when the letter arrives. The envelope’s contents that would soon become the thing that keeps me up at night. I was surprised, it had been months since I last heard from him. The last time was when police were investigating our relationship. I’m curious but at the same time cautious. My hands are shaking opening the letter and it hits me hard, all I can smell is iron. Full of memories of when we were happy, each photo a snip-it of what we used to be. His tactic was for me to feel guilty for cutting ties and turning to authorities, his way of a cruel apology. I have been here recovering after the poorly built foundation came crumbling down and I decided life wasn’t worth it anymore. It had been shortly after my fourteenth move and I lacked a sense of security. This was a big reminder of what I have left
I have been here for twenty eight days. A group of us are watching television when the letter arrives. The envelope’s contents that would soon become the thing that keeps me up at night. I was surprised, it had been months since I last heard from him. The last time was when police were investigating our relationship. I’m curious but at the same time cautious. My hands are shaking opening the letter and it hits me hard, all I can smell is iron. Full of memories of when we were happy, each photo a snip-it of what we used to be. His tactic was for me to feel guilty for cutting ties and turning to authorities, his way of a cruel apology. I have been here recovering after the poorly built foundation came crumbling down and I decided life wasn’t worth it anymore. It had been shortly after my fourteenth move and I lacked a sense of security. This was a big reminder of what I have left