Page 204 of Dear Rosie
But he doesn’t make another sound.
I watch the clock above the microwave and stay there, silent, for another ten minutes.
Then, when I’m sure he hasn’t moved, I look away from my dad and his chair, and I walk upstairs.
I keep my eyes forward.
And when I reach my room, I step inside and close the door behind me.
I’ve imagined this moment for so long.
For years.
And now that it’s here… I don’t feel anything.
There’s too much uncertainty for me to feel relief.
But maybe there’s room for peace.
I sit at my desk, overlooking the woods.
I open my desk drawer and pull my bag of marshmallows out.
Eating one slowly, I stare into the forest.
I have another. And another. Savoring all of them, just in case…
And when the bag is done, I reach back into my drawer.
I move aside the box cutter that I stole from the restaurant I work at and pull out a piece of paper.
I get through the wordDearand have to pause, because who am I even writing this to?
Thirty minutes later, I tuck the letter under my mattress, then head back downstairs to call 911.
I tell the paramedics I was upstairs while Dad was eating and that I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
They seem to believe me.
The doctors at the hospital seem to think it was natural heart failure.
And I seem to be getting away with murder.
That’s when I see Nathan on TV. In that cold antiseptic waiting room.
My old friend.
My confidant.
And I know… I know I can never drag the real Nathan into my life.
Not when I’m a murderer.
Not when there’s no statute of limitation on homicide.
Not when my decisions could ruin his life.
So when everything is done and I go back home, I sit at my desk and write my second letter of the night, letting Nathan go.
