Page 18 of Everything We Left Unsaid

Jacob

Letter? “What letter?”

She takes in a deep breath and pinches her eyes shut before blowing it out, trying to suppress her frustration. Turning her back to me, she marches toward her house, the soles of her shoes sticking in the fresh mud with every step.

“Where are you going?” I call after her. She doesn’t stop or even acknowledge that she heard me. “Damn it!” I follow after her, hoping she’ll stop and explain herself once I catch up. I reach for her but she jerks her arm out of my grasp.

“You don’t remember the letter you wrote?” she grits out, her pace quickening as she hits wet grass, her shoes releasing from the sticky mud. I open my mouth to speak, but she cuts me off. “I’ll show you the damn letter.” My mind races and I sift through every memory I have of the last couple years. I never once sent her a letter. I know I didn’t. But I keep my mouth shut. It won’t do me any good to explain this to her, not with the determination laced with scorn written over her face. I need all the facts to be able to build my case, and this so-called letter is exhibit A.

Abby stomps onto the front porch and kicks off her muddy shoes before barreling through the door. I follow suit and toe off my sneakers, setting them next to hers.

“There you are,” her grandmother throws over her shoulder, catching sight of Abby in her peripheral vision. Her back is to us as she stirs a wooden spoon through sauce simmering on the stove. “How was your…” she begins, turning around, but her smile falters when she takes in Abby’s rigid posture, stony countenance, and me trailing behind her. Abby gives her a tiny shake of her head but doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even stop to greet Chloe who’s crushing a graham cracker into the tray of her high chair with the bottom of her sippy cup. She makes her way down the hall and stops, turning toward me.

“You coming?” she asks with annoyance, turning the knob on her bedroom door. The muscle in my jaw ticks and I clench my teeth to keep from saying something snarky. Assuming she finally has something worthwhile to show me, I’d better not piss her off. It’s time we get to the bottom of this.

I follow her into her room and she shuts the door behind us. Not much has changed since the last time I was in here, but at the same time, everything has changed. There’s a crib tucked into the corner where her nightstand used to be, reminding me of how monumentally different everything is now. There are a lot more pictures on her dresser, most of them Chloe. A large framed collage of photos with Chloe, Abby, and several members of her family hangs on the far wall. Seeing all these memories of Chloe, memories I was willfully excluded from, reignites my anger. How can she treat me like I’m the bad guy, when she was the one who kept my daughter from me?

I do my best to cool my rising temper as Abby rummages through her closet. We’re finally getting somewhere, and losing it right now will only set us back. She finally pulls a shoebox down and places it on her bed, flipping open the lid. I try to look past her to get a peek inside, intrigued by its contents, but her long hair hangs in thick, damp waves, concealing it from my sight.

“Here!” she announces, turning to me and shoving a folded piece of paper in my hands.

I glance at her skeptically and she motions for me to open it. Unfolding the paper, my eyes go straight to the top, surprised to see my family name in masculine script printed on our personalized stationery. What the fuck? I proceed to read the typed letter silently, every line and word increasing my confusion.

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