Chapter 12 - THE BIRTHDAY CARD
I opened Greg’s birthday card when I turned twelve.
Three years later.
Mom had kept it sealed.
Inside:
Leo,
I hurt you.
No excuse.
Good beginning.
I expected:
I was stressed.
I was gambling.
Your mother made me angry.
None.
Instead:
I put the key in your mouth because I was afraid you would expose what I had done. When you resisted, I hit you. I have spent years wanting to find a sentence that makes that less ugly. There isn’t one.
I stopped reading.
My hands shook.
Then:
You were a child. I was the adult.
Correct.
Then:
I do not expect you to answer.
Good.
Final:
I hope the people around you now listen the first time you say no.
I folded card.
Mom asked:
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want to throw it away?”
“No.”
“Keep it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
No interpretation forced on me.
Then I asked:
“Do you think he changed?”
Mom answered:
“I hope he did.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe people can change.”
Then:
“But change doesn’t create a debt in the people they hurt.”
That stayed with me.
I could believe Greg became better.
Still never see him.
Both could coexist.
Then I looked up David.
My real dad.
Not literally.
Videos.
Photos.
Emails Mom saved.
For years, Greg had occupied so much space that David became a tragedy instead of a person.
I wanted him back as a person.
He hated olives.
Loved baseball.
Couldn’t sing.
Built terrible wooden toys.
Mr. Rocket still existed.
Inside it had been the key.
Funny.
Dad accidentally protected us years after death with a compartment he probably designed for coins.
Then Hale gave me copy of Dad’s trust letter.
One sentence:
Money is useful only if Leo grows up knowing it doesn’t own him.
I liked that.
Greg let money own him.
Mom almost did through fear of losing it.
I wanted different.
Then I put brass key into Mr. Rocket again.
Not because it still opened anything.
The cabinet lock had been replaced.
The key was useless.
May you like
That was exactly why I kept it.
Something that once terrified Greg had become just a tiny piece of metal.
