Page 67 of Pull Me Under

But then these aren’t private, they belong to me, in this cottage, and everyone else is dead. I untie the string.

My dearest H,

I know I can’t send this. I know you’ve made your choice. But I can’t stop writing to you – it’s the only way I can still feel close to you, even though I know you’ll never read these words.

The boys are lucky to have you. I understand why you chose them. I would have chosen them too, if I could. But understanding doesn’t make it hurt less.

I miss you. God, I miss you. Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed, knowing you’re in the same village and I can’t touch you, can’t speak to you, can’t even look at you without everyone seeing what we had.

What we lost.

The letter continues, but my eyes have snagged on one phrase.

The boys.

H has sons. Had sons. This letter is old – written when they were still in the village, before we left.

And my traitorous brain supplies, unbidden: the harbour wall. His face inches from mine. Knowing you’re in the same village and I can’t touch you.

I shove the thought away. I am not my father. This is not the same thing.

But the echo is there, and it frightens me.

I flip to the next letter. And the next.

H, I saw you in the village today. You looked through me like I wasn’t there. I know that’s what we agreed – no contact, no acknowledgement – but Christ, it hurt.

Sometimes I wonder if leaving is the right thing. W thinks so. He says we’ll destroy everything if we stay – the business, the family name, the children. Maybe he’s right. But leaving feels like dying. Leaving means admitting you’re never coming to me.

W. That’s Grandad. Walter.

So Grandad knew. Whatever happened between my father and this mysterious H, Grandad knew about it. Helped engineer the departure. Took us away to protect … what? The family name? My father from himself? The children – whoever they were?

The next letter is shorter. The handwriting’s different – shakier, the letters slipping sideways like the hand that wrote them had been drinking.

H,

Brynn asked me today why I look at her the way I do. Why I look right through her like she’s not even there.

I wanted to tell her: I go to you. Always to you.

She deserves better than a father who’s only half present. They all do. But I can’t seem to find my way back from wherever you took me.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

G.

I read it twice. Three times.

Brynn asked me today why I look at her the way I do.

I set the letters down carefully. My hands are shaking.

All those years I thought the problem was me. That I wasn’t enough. I learned to fix engines because he worked on boats. I learned to tie knots because Grandad said it might give us common ground. I made myself indispensable, competent, strong – the daughter who could strip a gearbox and patch a hull and never needed anything from anyone.

And none of it mattered.

Because he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking through me, searching for someone else.