“I can give you what you deserve.”
I’d given Caleb used bikes, patched gloves, and shoes bought one size too big. For half a second, shame crawled up my throat.
Then Caleb looked at me, not at the car. At me.
That steadied something inside my chest.
Melissa placed the keys in his hand. “I hope this helps us make peace.”
Caleb looked down at them, quiet enough that everyone leaned in without meaning to.
Then he nodded once.
“I hope this helps us make peace.”
“Thanks, Melissa. I have something for you, too.”
He went inside.
My stomach dropped because I knew exactly where he was going.
A minute later, he returned with a dusty shoebox tied with faded blue ribbon.
***
I knew that box. It had lived under his bed since he was little. When he was ten, I found him asleep beside it with a marker in his hand.
I almost threw it away the next morning.
“Please don’t, Dad,” he’d whispered.
“I have something for you, too.”
***
Now he handed it to Melissa.
She smiled wider. “Oh, Caleb. I didn’t expect a gift.”
“Open it.”
She untied the ribbon. The first envelope had crooked letters across the front.
“Mommy.”
“I wrote one every birthday,” Caleb said. “Dad told me not to hate you, so I wrote instead.”
She opened the card.
“I didn’t expect a gift.”
“Dear Mommy,” she read, her voice thinning.
“Today is my birthday. Daddy said maybe you’re busy. I saved you cake. I hope you come home soon.
Love, Caleb.”
I turned away. I remembered that cake, chocolate from a box, with the corner piece saved for her.
Melissa reached for the next envelope.
“Momma.”
Then “Mom.”
Then “Mother.”
Her hands slowed when she saw the next one.
“Melissa.”
“Why does this one say my name?” she asked.
“I hope you come home soon.”
Caleb’s voice stayed steady. “Because by then, that was all you were.”
She stared at him.
He took the card and read it himself.
“Melissa,
I turned twelve today. This means I’ve lived half my life without you. Dad made burgers, Lily burned the cupcakes, and everyone laughed.
Some of us don’t remember having a mother. The rest of us are starting to forget what it felt like.”
“This means I’ve lived half my life without you.”
***
Melissa dug deeper into the box and found the bottom layer.
- Receipts.
- Programs.
- Notes.
- Hospital bracelets.
- School forms.
“What’s all this?” she whispered.
Caleb pulled out a folded program. “‘Muffins with Mom.’ Amy cried because she thought she couldn’t go. Dad wore his best shirt and went with her.”
Amy gave a small smile. “And a dollar-store tie.”
Caleb lifted a sticky note. “Learn French braid before picture day.”
Lily sniffed. “He watched three videos and still made me look like a confused horse.”
“What’s all this?”
“One,” I said.
“Three,” Lily said.
“Fine. Three.”
A few people laughed softly, and somehow that made it hurt more.
Caleb held up a grocery receipt. “Cake mix. Cheap candles. Lunch meat. Diapers for Sophie. All on the back of an overdue bill.”
Melissa’s face had gone pale.
Then her eyes turned on me. “You kept these?”
“No,” I said. “He did.”
“You let him?” Her voice cracked. “You let him write all this about me?”
