Chapter 8: The Unwanted Delivery
Autumn arrived, painting the Seattle streets in vibrant shades of gold and crimson. James was four months old, sitting up with support and offering gummy smiles to anyone who made eye contact.
On a brisk Tuesday afternoon, Mark walked down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Amidst the usual pile of bills and catalogs was a thick, cream-colored envelope. There was no return address, but Mark instantly recognized the looping, elegant cursive. It was his mother’s handwriting.
He stopped in the middle of the driveway, staring at the envelope. His heart rate ticked up, a ghost of the old anxiety creeping into his chest.
Instead of taking it inside, Mark sat on the porch steps and tore it open. The letter was exactly what he expected—a masterclass in manipulation. Eleanor wrote about her failing health, her loneliness, and how cruelly she felt she had been treated. There was no mention of her putting her hands on Lena. There was no apology for terrifying Lily. It was a page and a half of pure, unadulterated victimhood.
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Mark didn't feel anger; he just felt an overwhelming sense of pity for a woman who could not see beyond her own pride.
He stood up, walked around to the side of the house, and dropped the letter directly into the recycling bin. He walked inside, greeted his wife with a kiss, and never mentioned the letter. Some doors, once closed, were better left entirely locked.
