I unfold the first piece of loose-leaf paper. The penmanship is neat and familiar. The letters slant slightly to the right, with no curls or swoops. The paper is still dented with my father’s determined writing.
It’s dated at the top with mine and Wyatt’s twenty-second birthday.
Soon they’ll graduate. I couldn’t be prouder of them. They’re smart and steady. Both born leaders.
Three simple lines that bring tears to my eyes. He was proud of us. I don’t wonder for more than a second why he’s written this to himself, or why he didn’t write more. I’m just glad he did.
I read it again and again, then I fold it and set it aside, reading another, dated at the top with our twenty-first birthday.
Rules have changed. College is more parties and sleeping around than I ever thought possible. They’re careful and smart. I have faith in them both.
He had faith in us. Why didn’t he ever say those words to us? He pushed. He said things like, Good job on your grades, which feels very different from I have faith in you.
I fold the letter and set it with the first one, then read the next few. He’s written similar letters on each of our birthdays.
Our sixteenth birthday…
Driving. My biggest fear. Please keep them safe.
Tears slide down my cheeks. Please keep them safe. A prayer. A plea. For us. If only he could have sent the same prayer and plea for himself and for Mom.
He loved us so much.
I read a few more and find the one dated on our sixth birthday.
We no longer have two. Now they’re three. Cassidy Lowell has become one of us. We’re blessed in so many ways. Wyatt has moved into a stronger leadership role, as it should be. Delilah is coming into her own, not a pushover, but happy to let him be the big brother.
Wyatt will be glad that he included Cassidy, but who refers to their six-year-olds as moving into a leadership role? I wish I could talk to him. I want to understand him better.
I find the last…well, the first, really—from our first birthday.
They’re smart and steady. Wyatt is a born leader. Delilah is a born watcher, but she’ll lead one day, too.
My hand drops to my leg and my stomach sinks. A born leader at a year old? Leader, watcher, steady. Even in these letters he was sensible, and thought in terms of us being adults, not warm and loving the way people usually gush over babies. I wonder about his upbringing again. Why don’t these letters speak of how cute we were, or the milestones we reached? They’re all so formal and sort of impersonal—well, except the one about us driving. I remember when we got our licenses. Dad was a nervous wreck. Mom was better, less worried, but my father practically timed us wherever we went, door to door. If we were fifteen minutes late, he’d call. I always thought it was because he worried that we’d lied about where we were going. Now I know he worried whether we’d made it to our destinations alive.
My perfect, demanding father, who made me feel like shit about who I was, worried about our safety. I’m not sure why this strikes me with such a strong impact, but it does. I never thought about why he was so overprotective. It just annoyed me that he was.
I rise to my feet and cross the room to my mother’s closet. I’m not as respectful of her things, because I’m losing patience, and I want answers. I tear through her closet, top to bottom, pulling clothes off the hangers and everything she’s got stacked on the top shelf comes down in a big pile, landing on the floor with several thumps. I toss the sweaters aside, searching for a diary, her own box of secrets. Something that will clue me in to the person she was, beyond the caring mother who was always present when we needed her.
Maybe there’s some secret in their past that would help me to understand why they were so unyielding in their beliefs. They weren’t religious by any stretch of the imagination. The need to understand why they were so adamant consumes me as I face my mother’s belongings.
Her closet is full of normal stuff: scarves and clothes, shoes, belts. I glare across the room at my father’s closet, and something inside me snaps. I tear open his drawers again and pull them out. They crash to the floor. I toss his clothes on the ground, searching for something more. Anything to explain why he was so against my lifestyle. I feel like a raving lunatic as I throw his stuff around the room, knowing damn well I won’t find anything but unable to stop myself.
After coming up empty on my search-and-discovery mission, I run down the stairs to my father’s office and tear through his desk, but my aunt’s already cleared it out. Every drawer, every shelf is empty. I pace his office, breathing hard and debating where else I might find answers. Finally I pull out my cell phone and call my aunt. She answers on the first ring.