Chapter 3: What My Own Hand Had Written
I stood there staring at it.
My name.
My address from eighteen years ago.
Written in my own handwriting — the loopy, slightly left-leaning cursive I'd used all through my twenties before I switched to printing everything.
"Where did this come from?" I asked.
"Luis sent it," Dad said.
"He found it in a box of things from the old apartment.
Said it was addressed to him.
Said he never sent it because he thought — " Dad stopped.
Coughed.
Steadied himself.
"He thought you'd written it to end things."
"I never wrote Luis a letter."
"I know that's what you believe."
"Dad, I'm telling you — "
"Just open it."
My hands weren't steady.
I worked the flap open carefully, like something inside might break if I rushed.
The paper inside was folded in thirds, the way you'd fold something to fit a standard envelope.
I recognized the stationery immediately — pale blue, with a small printed border at the top.
My mother had given me a box of it the Christmas before she passed.
I hadn't used a single sheet of it to write to Luis.
I was certain of that.
I unfolded it.
The handwriting was mine.
Every loop, every slant, every small habit I had of crossing my t's slightly too far to the right.
It looked exactly like something I would have written.
But I had not written it.
*Luis — I can't do this anymore.
I know what you'll say, but I've made my decision.
Don't call.
Don't come by.
I need you to let me go.
— R*
R.
For Rosa.
My name.
I read it three times.
"I didn't write this," I said.
Dad didn't answer right away.
"Dad."
"I believe you," he said quietly.
"Now."
"What do you mean, now?"
He turned his face toward the window.
Outside, a nurse was crossing the parking lot below, moving fast against the wind.
"Luis showed me a photo of it two years ago," he said.
"Before he mailed the original.
I told him it looked real.
I told him — " His voice dropped.
"I told him it was probably for the best."
The room felt very still.
"You told him it was for the best."
"Rosa — "
"You saw a letter that you thought I'd written to end my own marriage, and you told my husband it was probably for the best."
He didn't deny it.
I set the letter down on the edge of the bed.
I needed my hands free.
I didn't know why.
I just needed them free.
"Who else knew about this letter?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Think."
He closed his eyes.
For a moment I thought he'd fallen asleep, or drifted somewhere the medication took him.
Then he said one word.
"Diane."
My stomach dropped.
Diane was my cousin.
She had been my closest friend for most of my childhood.
She had been the maid of honor at my wedding.
She had been the one who called me, eighteen years ago, to tell me she'd seen Luis with another woman at a hotel downtown.
She had been the reason I filed for divorce.
"What does Diane have to do with this?" I asked.
Dad opened his eyes.
He looked at me with an expression I hadn't seen on his face before — something between guilt and grief and a very old, very tired fear.
"She was the one who brought me the letter first," he said.
"Before Luis ever saw it.
May you like
She said she'd found it in your things.
That you'd written it and lost your nerve to send it."
