Chapter 2: The Letter That Changed Everything

1

I’d been waiting at the post office entrance for three hours.

The small-town post office sat between the hardware store and a bait shop, its paint peeling, the flag barely moving in the humid summer air. My shoes tapped on the concrete as trucks rolled by, each one kicking up dust and the occasional wave from a neighbor.

As soon as the doors opened, I rushed inside.

The AC made my skin prickle, and the smell of old envelopes reminded me of every nerve-wracking letter I’d ever opened. The air was cool, tinged with paper and printer ink. I could hear someone sorting packages behind the counter, the bell above the door still ringing in my ears.

"Hi, my name’s Helen Foster. Is there a registered letter for me?"

My voice sounded too loud in the quiet room. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to look like I belonged.

My hands at my sides couldn’t help but tremble.

I squeezed them tight, hoping no one would notice. Even after all these years, important mail still made me nervous. You never knew if it was going to bring good news or another bill.

"Ms. Foster?"

The woman behind the counter peered over her glasses, shuffling through a stack of envelopes with practiced efficiency. She gave me that small-town smile, polite but not unkind.

My hands clenched tighter. "Yes, that’s me."

"Registered letter. Please sign here."

She slid the form across the counter. I fumbled for a pen, my signature shaking a little more than I’d like to admit.

I carefully signed my name.

My handwriting looked different now—older, more tired. Still, seeing my name on the line made something in my chest flutter. Maybe hope, or maybe just nerves.

Then I hurried home.

I stepped out into the sunlight, letter clutched tight. The streets were waking up: kids on bikes weaving past, the distant jangle of the ice cream truck echoing down Maple Street. I picked up my pace, heart thumping.

"Mom, I’m hungry."

A little girl ran over and clung tightly to my leg.

Her hair stuck out in every direction, her cheeks smudged with syrup from breakfast, and her eyes were wide and hungry. She pressed her face into my jeans, and I ruffled her hair with a tired smile.

My expression softened a little.

Even after everything, her voice could still melt me. I bent down, kissed her head, and wondered how I could ever leave her behind.

But I still went to the kitchen to make her some scrambled eggs.

I rummaged through the fridge, scraping together the last of the eggs. The sizzle of the pan filled the house, drowning out the quiet ache that had settled in my chest. I sprinkled a little salt, wishing I had something more to offer her.

This month’s food stamps had all been sent by Charles to Melissa’s house next door.

It didn’t matter how many times I reminded him; every government envelope, every check, every little bit of help we could get seemed to find its way to Melissa’s mailbox first. Our kitchen cupboards stayed emptier than theirs ever did.

He seemed to have forgotten that he still had a wife and child to support at home.

Sometimes I’d stand by the window, watching him help Melissa carry in bags of groceries. The image burned into my mind like a scar that wouldn’t fade.

In his eyes, there was only Melissa and her two kids.

No matter how many birthdays I remembered or how many lunches I packed, Charles’s attention stayed fixed next door. If love was a ledger, I was always coming up short.

I watched my daughter eat her eggs at the table, then went into my room.

The house was quiet except for the scrape of her fork against the plate. I closed my bedroom door, holding the letter close, and tried not to think about all the meals we’d missed, all the moments we’d never get back.

The registered letter was from my old professor.

His name, Dr. Wilkins, was scrawled in the corner in familiar blue ink. Memories of lecture halls, chalk dust, and heated debates about literature and life washed over me. For a moment, I was twenty again, brimming with possibility.

In my previous life, I’d also received an invitation from my professor, asking me to join his team volunteering in the Southwest.

Back then, the Southwest felt as far away as the moon. But the idea of adventure, of purpose, tugged at something deep inside me. It was a chance to start over, to do something that mattered.

The classmates who followed him for three years all went on to have bright futures.

I’d watched them on Facebook years later—photos of them at conferences, new cities, wedding announcements, baby showers. They looked happy, fulfilled. Sometimes I wondered what it would’ve been like to be one of them, to take a chance instead of letting it slip away.

But in just ten days, Charles would return.

His return date was circled in red on the calendar. I counted down the days with a mix of dread and obligation, knowing he’d expect everything to be exactly as he left it.

He told me, as the oldest sister-in-law, I should be understanding.

That phrase—‘be understanding’—was his favorite weapon. It was supposed to sound virtuous, but it only ever made me feel small.

Back then, his younger brother worked himself to death supporting his studies, which led to his illness. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have died so young.

It was the story Charles told anyone who’d listen, a tale that justified every choice he made. His brother’s ghost lingered at every family gathering, every whispered conversation, haunting me more than anyone else.

This, he said, was what he owed Melissa’s family.

The debt was never mine, but somehow, I was the one paying the interest. Every sacrifice, every compromise—chalked up to an old family score I never agreed to settle.

He told me I was good in every way, and he felt at ease with me. Unlike Melissa, who was frail and would struggle to raise kids alone, so he wanted to take her with him to work.

He made it sound like a kindness, as if he were saving me from something. But really, he was just saving himself from guilt. I was the strong one, the reliable one—so I could be left behind.

At the time, I was shocked and couldn’t understand.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table, the clock ticking too loud, wondering if I was being punished for loving him too much. None of it made sense, but Charles always spoke with the kind of certainty that made you doubt yourself.

But after years of marriage, I’d already been manipulated by Charles into a fool.

He had a way of making me believe his problems were my responsibility. Somewhere along the line, I started to agree.

I thought my husband was my whole world.

He’d been my first love, the boy I’d met in college on a warm spring night. I’d built my life around him, ignoring all the red flags because that’s what good wives did, or so I thought.

So I swallowed my resentment, endured my shame and anger, and raised the kids alone.

I plastered on a smile for the neighbors, hid my tears in the laundry room, and kept the house running even when my heart was running on empty. No one saw how hard it was, how much I wanted to scream.

I also gave up my plan to go to the Southwest.

The letter sat in my dresser drawer for years, unopened. I’d touch it sometimes, tracing the faded ink, wondering what might have been. Regret became my constant companion.

At first, he still sent back food and grocery vouchers.

Every now and then, an envelope would show up with a few bills, or a voucher for the corner store. I’d use it sparingly, making it stretch as far as I could.

But gradually, there was no news at all.

The envelopes stopped coming, and so did the phone calls. Silence crept in, filling the cracks in our life like an unwelcome guest.

I only found out later that after Melissa followed him there, he was afraid Melissa would feel like an outsider and be too polite to spend money. So he gave all the money each month to Melissa.

He claimed it was for her comfort, but I knew better. Charles never saw how Melissa looked at him—like he was the answer to every prayer she’d ever whispered. And he liked it that way.

He even left the job of sending food and grocery vouchers to her.

As if I wasn’t even responsible enough to handle my own household. He trusted Melissa more than his own wife, and that stung worse than any insult.

At first, Melissa would send some back, but later she just kept everything for herself.

She’d wave from her porch, wearing new shoes, her children well-fed and rosy-cheeked. I’d watch from my window, pride and bitterness warring inside me.

Many years later, when this was brought up, she just said, "Did the money get lost in the mail?"

She’d shrug, wide-eyed, and act as if it was all a misunderstanding. But I knew better. Small towns have long memories, and the truth always has a way of slipping out, sooner or later.

Charles just brushed it off.

He’d laugh it away, claim it was ancient history. But to me, it was the story of my life—a collection of things brushed aside.

By then, Charles had already raised her two kids, both with good jobs.

They’d grown up in comfort, went off to college, came back with shiny degrees and better prospects than my own kids ever got. Charles acted like he’d won some prize, never seeing the cost.

But my son didn’t even have a stable job, and my daughter, because she was malnourished, grew up frail and dropped out of school early to get married.

I watched her leave in a borrowed dress, skinny arms trembling, hope in her eyes that I wished I could believe in. I wanted more for her, but I couldn’t give it.

My kids lived in poverty all their lives.

They tried to scrape by, never asking for handouts, never expecting help. I saw them break their backs for every dollar, always on the outside looking in.

But Melissa’s kids, after retirement, not only received thousands in pension, but their whole family prospered.

They threw Fourth of July barbecues with a spread fit for a mayor, their kids driving in from out of state, everyone laughing as if hardship was a foreign word.

My kids resented my incompetence, yet still eagerly tried to curry favor with Melissa’s family.

They’d send Christmas cards, drop by with pies, hoping for a scrap of approval that never came. It broke me a little more every time I saw them try.

Even in death, no one cared about me.

When the end came, my funeral was barely attended. The church pews echoed, empty except for a few distant cousins and my old friend Carol from church. Melissa’s family sent a card—nothing more.