Chapter 8 - Echoes of the Past
Two months later, just as the first winter snow began dusting the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, a letter arrived in my mailbox bearing no return address.
It was postmarked from Scottsdale, Arizona.
I sat at the kitchen island after Emily had gone to bed, breaking the seal with a pocket knife. Inside was a single sheet of heavy stationery, written in hurried, aggressive handwriting.
Andrew,
I hope you’re happy. My parents cut me off financially. My friends won’t return my calls. Everyone in Denver treats me like a criminal because of the rumors your high-priced lawyers spread about me. All I wanted was a secure future. All I wanted was a family that mattered.
You threw me away like trash for a nine-year-old child who isn’t even your real—
I stopped reading right there. The venom on the page was pathetic, a final dying gasp of a drowning ego.
I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel vindicated. I just felt a profound, crystal-clear sense of closure.
May you like
I folded the letter in half, dropped it directly into the kitchen trash can, and walked over to the stove to brew a cup of hot chamomile tea.
The past was officially buried.
