Chapter 3: The Letters in the Drawer
I didn’t sleep that night.
After everyone left, I sat alone in the living room.
The Christmas tree lights kept blinking.
Red.
Green.
Gold.
The same lights that had watched my family fall apart hours earlier.
Maya was upstairs.
I knew she was awake.
I knew because I was awake too.
At two in the morning, I finally heard footsteps.
She appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing an oversized sweatshirt.
The same one she wore when she was sick.
“Dad?””
I looked up.
“Come sit.””
She sat beside me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“I’m sorry.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
“But I lied.””
“You hid something because you were scared.””
“That’s still lying.””
I looked at her.
“You’re allowed to be scared.””
She stared at the floor.
“I found the letters last summer.””
“What letters?””
“The ones in Mom’s drawer.””
My chest tightened.
Her old drawer.
I hadn’t opened it in years.
After her death, I couldn’t.
Every shirt.
Every photo.
Every little reminder felt like reopening a wound.
“What were you looking for?””
“Your old insurance papers.””
I nodded slowly.
“And?””
“And I found a box.””
Maya took a breath.
“There were letters.””
“From who?””
She looked at me.
“Mom.””
I felt something shift inside me.
“Letters to who?””
She didn’t answer immediately.
And that scared me.
“Maya.””
“Dad…”
Her voice trembled.
“Mom knew she was sick earlier than she told you.””
The room became colder.
“No.””
“She did.””
“No, Maya.””
“She wrote about it.””
I stood up.
Not because I wanted to leave.
Because sitting still felt impossible.
“Your mother went to doctors. She tried treatments. We knew.””
“Not all of it.””
I turned.
“What does that mean?””
Maya’s eyes filled with tears.
“She knew how bad it was.””
I stared at her.
“She knew she might not have much time.””
The pain came back instantly.
The hospital.
The smell of disinfectant.
The way my wife held my hand and promised she would come home.
The way I believed her.
“Why didn’t she tell me?””
Maya looked away.
“I don’t know.””
Then she whispered:
“But Tara does.””
My heart stopped.
“Tara?””
Maya nodded.
“She wrote about talking to Aunt Tara.””
I sat down slowly.
The pieces started moving.
Not fitting.
But moving.
“Tara knew?””
“I think so.””
I grabbed my phone.
Then stopped.
Because what would I even say?
Did you know my wife was dying and keep it from me?
It sounded impossible.
Cruel.
Like something that happened in someone else’s life.
Not mine.
The next morning, I drove to Tara’s apartment.
She opened the door wearing sunglasses.
“You came early.””
“You knew.””
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Knew what?””
“Don’t do that.””
She sighed.
“Come inside.””
I didn’t.
“Did you know my wife was dying?””
Silence.
The answer was already there.
Her eyes dropped.
And I felt something inside me break.
“You knew.””
“Tara…”
She looked exhausted.
“I didn’t know everything.””
“You knew enough.””
“I was trying to protect you.””
I laughed.
A bitter sound.
“Protect me?””
“She didn’t want you to know.””
“You don’t get to decide that.””
“She begged me.””
That stopped me.
“What?””
Tara removed her sunglasses.
“She didn’t want you spending the last months of her life terrified.””
I stared at her.
“Why didn’t she tell me herself?””
Tara looked away.
“Because she was afraid.””
“Of what?””
A tear appeared in Tara’s eye.
“She was afraid you would stop living.””
I said nothing.
Because suddenly I remembered.
The week before she died, my wife had told me:
Promise me something.
I had laughed.
“What?””
Promise me you won’t disappear after I’m gone.
I thought she meant grief.
I never imagined she meant this.
Tara stepped closer.
“I made a mistake.””
I looked at her.
“No.””
She stopped.
“You made choices.””
Her face fell.
I continued:
“You let my daughter carry secrets that belonged to adults.””
“I was scared.””
“So was Maya.””
That sentence stayed between us.
When I returned home, Maya was waiting.
She knew.
Somehow, she knew.
“Did you talk to Aunt Tara?””
“Yes.””
“What did she say?””
I looked at my daughter.
And I realized something.
The truth wasn’t finished hurting us.
Because on the drive home, I had received a voicemail.
From a number I hadn’t seen in five years.
A number that belonged to someone who should have been gone.
I pressed play.
May you like
And heard a woman’s voice whisper:
“Please don’t trust Tara.””
