Page 21 of Rookie's Shot
The letter goes back in the drawer. I don't fold it, and I don't tear it up either.
Don't burn it, even though burning it would feel satisfying for about ten seconds before the smoke cleared and the words were still in my head.
I close the drawer and call my mom.
She picks up on the second ring. "Hey, baby."
"He wrote again." No pleasantries. She doesn't need them.
Silence on her end. Not surprised. She’s tired.
The exhale of a woman who's been waiting for this phone call the way you wait for a bill you know is coming.
"When?" Her voice is steady. Practiced, the same way his letter was practiced, except her steadiness is real. Earned through years of therapy and rebuilding, not performed for an audience of one.
I lean against the counter. "It came over a week ago. I opened it this morning."
"What did he say?"
"The same. He's in a program. He's found clarity." The word tastes sour. "He wants a chance. Wants to know I'm okay."
My mother's voice drops half a register. "He wants to know he's still connected to you. It's not about whether you're okay, Saylor. It's about whether he can still reach you."
She pauses. "If he can, he's not alone. If he can't, he has to sit with what he did, and he doesn't want to do that."
I close my eyes. Press my forehead against the cabinet above the counter.
The wood is cool and smooth and smells like the lemon cleaner I buy at the dollar store.
"He called himself a good father."
She's silent for a long time after that. Long enough for me to hear the clock on her kitchen wall ticking through the phone.
"Come over for dinner tonight." Not a question. An instruction.
"I have a shift at the bar."
"After."
"Mom, it'll be late."
"I don't care if it's five in the damn morning, Saylor." Her voice hardens at the edges. "Come over after your shift. Bring the letter if you want. Or don't."
She exhales. "Either way, you're not sitting alone with this."
My throat tightens. "Okay."
A pause. Then softer: "I love you. And I need you to hear this: you don't owe him a response. Not one word."
She takes a breath. "He lost the right to hear from you when he did what he did, and no amount of prison therapy and journal writing earns it back. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Now go to class. Eat something." A cabinet closes on her end. "I'll have food ready for you tonight."
I hang up and stand in the kitchen for another minute, hands flat on the counter, staring at the closed drawer.
Then I grab my bag and leave.
