I have written this letter many times and destroyed every version because each one sounded like I was asking you to make me feel better. I am trying not to do that now.
Noah stopped.
Then continued.
You knew me as your uncle. I used that relationship while hiding the fact that I helped keep your father from you. There is no explanation that makes that acceptable.
Noah’s jaw tightened.
I told myself I was protecting you. At first, I believed that partly. Later I knew I was protecting myself.
Noah thought of Sarah saying the same thing behind visitation glass.
Daniel continued.
The worst thing I remember is the telescope.
Noah froze.
You asked if your father could see you from heaven. I knew he might still be alive. I answered you anyway.
Noah closed his eyes.
He had forgotten the question.
Not the telescope.
But the words.
Now they returned.
Cold backyard.
Daniel adjusting the focus.
Stars.
Noah asking:
“Do you think Dad sees this?”
Daniel answering:
“I think he sees everything.”
Noah put down the letter.
He walked outside.
Sat on the porch.
Sarah eventually came out.
She did not ask what Daniel wrote.
She just sat.
Noah stared ahead.
“Do you hate him?”
Sarah thought.
“Sometimes.”
The honesty surprised him.
“Still?”
“Yes.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
She looked toward him.
“I also loved him once.”
“He was family.”
“Both things are true.”
Noah nodded.
“Do you forgive him?”
Sarah smiled tiredly.
“Everybody asks that like forgiveness is a door.”
“You open it or you don’t.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
Noah waited.
Sarah continued.
“I stopped wanting revenge.”
“I stopped thinking about him every day.”
“I hope he becomes better because otherwise all that pain just keeps moving through people.”
“But I don’t want him back in my life.”
“That’s what I have.”
Noah looked at the letter.
“That sounds fair.”
Sarah touched his shoulder.
“What did he ask for?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Noah finished reading later.
Daniel wrote about prison.
Counseling.
Other men who had destroyed families while telling themselves stories about necessity.
Then:
Your father was braver than me because he was willing to lose everything for the truth. He was also foolish because he tried to handle it alone. I was worse because I used his mistake against him.
Noah almost laughed.
Michael would hate being called brave and foolish in the same sentence because it was accurate.
At the end:
I am sorry I stole years from you. I cannot return them. I hope whatever years you have with your father become larger than the ones I helped take away.