Chapter 7 – THE LETTER HE HID FROM DAD

Roman stood motionless.

Oliver was looking up at him with the frightened certainty of a child who had already worked out how an unhappy future would happen.

“Buddy,” Roman said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Oliver wiped his nose.

“You always say that.”

The words landed harder than any accusation Celeste had made.

Roman lowered himself into the chair beside the fireplace.

“Come sit with me.”

Oliver hesitated.

Then he sat on the arm of the chair, leaving a little space between them.

“When did I go away when you needed me?” Roman asked.

Oliver looked embarrassed.

“You went to New York on my birthday.”

Roman nodded.

“I did.”

“And when I had the school concert.”

“Yes.”

“And when the pipes broke and we had to eat sandwiches in the kitchen.”

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

I remembered that afternoon.

Oliver had found the plumbing disaster exciting. Celeste had been furious about the water damage, and I’d made peanut butter sandwiches while maintenance worked upstairs.

Roman looked at his son.

“I missed a lot, didn’t I?”

Oliver nodded.

“Celeste stayed.”

She turned away.

Something in her expression made me realize that Oliver wasn’t lying about how much she’d meant to him.

He had depended on her.

She’d been the person who remembered his favorite cereal, found his missing shoes, and stayed awake when he had nightmares.

And somewhere along the way, she’d begun using that devotion to make him afraid of losing her.

Roman placed an arm around his son.

“Celeste has done many good things for you. That doesn’t make what happened with Grandma okay.”

Oliver looked at him.

“Can both be true?”

“Yes.”

He thought about that.

Then he asked, “Can she still live here?”

Roman glanced toward Celeste.

“I don’t know yet.”

Oliver’s eyes filled again.

Roman pulled him closer.

“But whatever happens between Celeste and me, you’re my son. Taking care of you is my responsibility.”

Oliver leaned against him.

For the first time that evening, he seemed willing to believe it.

June sat quietly on the sofa.

After a while, she asked whether Oliver would like to hear one of the letters she’d written him.

He lifted his head.

“You still have them?”

“The ones Celeste sent back.”

She removed the worn bundle from her paper bag.

The rubber band had left an indentation across the envelopes.

She chose one dated in June.

“Would you like me to read it?”

Oliver nodded.

June unfolded the paper.

Dear Oliver,

Today I made your mother’s banana bread and accidentally used salt instead of sugar. I took one bite and nearly fell off my chair. Rebecca did exactly the same thing when she was twelve. She insisted the recipe was wrong. It wasn’t.

Oliver laughed.

“Mom did that?”

“Twice,” June said.

She continued reading.

The letter described Rebecca’s first bicycle, her fear of thunderstorms, and the way she used to rescue worms from the sidewalk after it rained.

None of it sounded like a woman trying to make her grandson sad.

It sounded like someone trying to give him back the ordinary details of a mother he’d been too young to know for long.

When June finished, Oliver held out his hand.

“Can I keep it?”

“It’s yours.”

He folded the letter carefully.

Then he looked at Celeste.

“Why did you tell me Grandma wrote bad things about Mom?”

Celeste’s face tightened.

“I didn’t say all her letters were bad.”

“You said they would make Dad upset.”

Roman looked at her.

“Did you?”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you couldn’t talk about Rebecca without shutting down.”

Roman didn’t immediately deny it.

June looked at him sadly.

He rubbed his forehead.

“Oliver,” he said, “sometimes hearing your mother’s name made me sad because I missed her. That wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

The boy studied him.

“You can miss her and still be happy?”

Roman looked toward Celeste.

Then toward June.

“Yes.”

Oliver seemed to consider that a new possibility.

He looked at the bundle of letters.

“Grandma, did you ever get my notes?”

June shook her head.

“What notes, darling?”

“The ones I wrote after my birthday.”

Celeste closed her eyes.

Roman noticed.

“What notes?”

Oliver slid off the chair.

“Celeste said writing them would help me understand my feelings.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Roman said carefully.

“I wrote about school. And Mom. And Grandma.”

“Did you send them?”

Oliver looked at Celeste.

“She said she’d mail them when everybody was ready.”

June glanced toward the folded letters.

“I haven’t received anything, sweetheart.”

Oliver looked genuinely confused.

“But I wrote a lot.”

Roman turned toward Celeste.

“Where are they?”

She sighed.

“In a folder with the other correspondence.”

“Which folder?”

“The blue one in my desk.”

Roman looked toward the writing desk.

Celeste didn’t move.

Then she crossed the room, unlocked the bottom drawer, and removed a blue folder.

She handed it to him.

Inside were several dozen pages.

Some were written in blue pencil. Others in Oliver’s careful handwriting.

Roman began turning them over.

I saw a drawing of a house with a crooked chimney.

A picture of June holding a plate of cookies.

A letter about Oliver losing his first soccer game.

Then Roman found one that made him stop.

He read it once.

Twice.

His fingers tightened around the paper.

“What is this?”

Celeste looked at him.

“Roman—”

“What is this?”

Oliver moved closer.

“That’s the one I wrote to you.”

Roman looked up.

“To me?”

Oliver nodded.

“I asked Celeste to give it to you because I didn’t want to make you sad by saying it out loud.”

Roman’s face changed.

He looked at the date.

October 18.

More than a month earlier.

He held out the page.

“Emily, please read this.”

I hesitated.

“Sir?”

“Please.”

I took the paper.

It was written in pencil, with an eraser mark across the top.

The words were simple.

Not polished.

Not copied from anyone else.

Dear Dad,

I know you love Celeste and you want to get married. I don’t want to ruin it.

Sometimes I remember Mom too much, and I know that makes everybody sad.

If you want, I can go live with Grandma. I think she might still have my old bed.

You can come visit me when you aren’t busy.

I promise I won’t be mad.

Love, Oliver.

I couldn’t finish the last line aloud.

Roman took the paper from my hand.

He looked at his son.

“Oliver, why didn’t you give me this yourself?”

The boy looked down.

“Because Celeste said you were finally happy again.”

Roman turned slowly toward his fiancée.

Celeste’s face had gone white.

He held up the letter.

“You knew my son was asking to leave his own home. Why didn’t you tell me?”

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