Chapter 6 - The Unsent Letters
Daniel returned to his dingy motel room, unable to sleep. He pacing the narrow carpet between the television and the bathroom door until his joints ached. His phone lay on the nightstand, silent. His high-paying corporate marketing job in Columbus expected him back at his desk on Monday morning. He had taken three days off under the casual explanation of ""attending to personal estate matters."" In his mind, he had envisioned returning to Columbus with Joanna and the kids in tow, or at least with plans for them to relocate together by summer.
What a pathetic, childish delusion that had been.
He sat down at the small laminate desk in the corner of the room. He grabbed a notepad emblazoned with the motel logo and a ballpoint pen.
He began to write.
Joanna,
I stood on the porch in Pittsburgh yesterday. My key worked, but the house was empty. Mrs. Henderson told me about the furnace. She told me about the double shifts. Dr. Miller told me about the black coffee.
He stopped, tore the sheet off, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it at the trash can. It sounded like an excuse. It sounded like an attempt to elicit sympathy.
He pulled another sheet forward.
I saw Owen play today. He has a brilliant first touch. You always said he had your father’s athletic balance, and you were right. I saw Lucy in her yellow boots. She looks so tall now.
He tore that page away too. Mentioning that he had spied on them from the bushes sounded creepy, cowardly, and intrusive.
He spent the entire night writing and discarding pages. By dawn, the metal wastebasket was overflowing with crumpled white paper. As the gray morning light began to creep beneath the motel curtains, Daniel stopped trying to justify himself. He stopped explaining why he felt suffocated in Pittsburgh, why the corporate climb in Columbus felt so hollow, why he had convinced himself that running away was merely ""finding himself.""
He opened his banking application on his phone. Over the last two years, unburdened by mortgage payments, childcare costs, summer camps, dental bills, or braces, his personal investment accounts had accumulated significant funds. He had over seventy-five thousand dollars sitting in savings, earning interest while his son wore shoes with holes in the toes and his daughter wrapped herself in three blankets to survive a Pittsburgh winter.
The sheer obscenity of his selfishness made him physically nauseous.
He didn't write another word of romantic apology. Instead, he went to a local branch of his national bank downtown as soon as the doors opened at nine o’clock. He sat before a bank officer and requested an irrevocable cashier’s check made out to Joanna Lynn Mercer for the entirety of his liquid savings account.
""Are you sure you want this as an official cashier's check, sir?"" the teller asked, glancing over the sizable balance. ""Once issued, this cannot be reversed or stopped.""
""I am completely sure,"" Daniel said, his voice firmer than it had been in years. ""It’s two years past due.""
Next, he bought a simple manila envelope. Inside, he placed the check, the deed transfer release forms he had signed for the Pittsburgh house proceeds (which he had never formally relinquished), and a single handwritten note:
May you like
This is not an apology. An apology cannot pay for the furnace or replace the nights Owen wondered if he was too loud. This belongs to you and the children. It always did. I will be at the Lakeview Diner on 8th Street tomorrow at noon. If you do not come, I will leave Erie and never disturb your life again. Whatever you decide, this money is yours.
He drove back to the sage-green house, slipped the envelope quietly between the front screen door and the frame, and walked away without looking back.
