THE EDGE OF THIRST
Chapter 28 : The Letters
The first letter arrived on a Wednesday.
Julian found it in the mailbox, sandwiched between a grocery store coupon and a bill for electricity. The envelope was plain white, addressed in careful handwriting to Elijah Cruz-Ashford. No return address. But Julian knew who it was from.
He stood in the doorway, holding the letter, his hands shaking.
Micah appeared behind him. “What’s that?”
“A letter.”
“From?”
“Her.”
Micah was quiet for a moment. “Are you going to open it?”
“I’m supposed to. The judge said we had to review them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Julian turned to look at him. Micah’s dark eyes were steady, patient.
“I don’t know,” Julian admitted. “I don’t know if I can read her words without wanting to burn them.”
“Then I’ll read it.”
“Micah —”
“You don’t have to carry this alone.” Micah took the envelope from Julian’s hand. “That’s what partners are for.”
He opened the letter.
Dear Elijah,
I don’t know if you remember me. I don’t know if you think about me. I don’t know if you wonder where I am or why I couldn’t take care of you.
I think about you every day.
I’m not writing to make excuses. I made terrible choices. I hurt you in ways I can never undo. I chose drugs over you, over myself, over everything that mattered. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I’m clean now. I’ve been clean for eight months. I go to meetings. I have a sponsor. I have a job — a small one, at a coffee shop, but it’s mine. I live in a small apartment with a woman named Rosa who reminds me every day that I’m worth something.
I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to write back. I don’t expect anything except the chance to tell you that I love you. I’ve always loved you. I was just too sick to show it.
Maybe one day you’ll want to meet me. Maybe you won’t. Either way, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep getting better. I’ll keep hoping.
Love,
Your birth mother,
Maria
Micah folded the letter and set it on the table.
Julian stared at it. “She loves him.”
“She says she loves him.”
“Do you believe her?”
Micah was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. I want to. But I don’t know.”
“What do we do?”
“We put the letter in a box. We wait. We see if she keeps writing. We see if she stays clean. We see if she proves herself.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we protect our son. The way we’ve always protected him.”
Julian picked up the letter. He read it again. And again. The words blurred and sharpened, blurred and sharpened.
“She sounds sincere.”
“Addicts are good at sounding sincere.”
“Micah.”
“I’m not saying she’s lying. I’m saying — I’m saying we’ve both been burned by people who said they loved us and didn’t mean it.” Micah took Julian’s hand. “We have to be careful. For Elijah.”
Julian nodded. “For Elijah.”
They put the letter in a box on the top shelf of the closet, next to Julian’s grandmother’s diary and the photographs from his wedding to Claire.
A box of memories. A box of pain. A box of hope.
The second letter came two weeks later.
Dear Elijah,
I’m writing this at night, after work. Rosa is asleep in the other room. The coffee shop was busy today — lots of customers, lots of orders. I messed up three lattes and dropped a whole tray of pastries. My manager was not happy.
But I kept going. That’s what I do now. I keep going.
I’ve been thinking about your fifth birthday. Do you remember it? Probably not. You were so small. I made you a cake — chocolate, your favorite — and you ate the frosting with your fingers before I could put on the candles. You laughed. You had the best laugh.
I miss your laugh.
I don’t know if I’ll ever hear it again. But I’m glad — so glad — that you have people in your life who make you laugh. People who love you. People who can give you the things I couldn’t.
Tell me about your life, if you want. Tell me about school. Tell me about your friends. Tell me about your dads.
Or don’t. It’s up to you.
I’ll keep writing anyway.
Love,
Maria
The third letter came a month later.
Dear Elijah,
I dreamed about you last night. You were older — maybe eight or nine. You were riding a bike, a red one, and you were laughing. I tried to catch up to you, but you were too fast.
I woke up crying.
Rosa said it was a good dream. She said it meant I was healing. She said it meant I was letting go.
I don’t want to let go. I want to hold on. But maybe holding on doesn’t mean holding you back. Maybe holding on means letting you live your life while I live mine.
I’ve been going to therapy. Did I tell you that? I see a woman named Dr. Patel. She asks me hard questions. Questions I don’t want to answer. But I answer them anyway, because that’s what healing looks like.
I hope you’re healing too. I hope you’re happy. I hope you know that what happened wasn’t your fault.
It was mine. All mine.
And I’m sorry.
Love,
Maria
Julian and Micah read every letter.
They read them together, on the couch, after Elijah was asleep. They read them with tears in their eyes and anger in their hearts and a desperate, aching hope that maybe — just maybe — Maria Webb was telling the truth.
“She’s trying,” Julian said one night, after reading the seventh letter.
“She’s trying.”
“Do we tell Elijah?”
Micah was quiet for a long moment. The clock ticked. Juniper snored. Oliver hissed at nothing.
“Not yet,” Micah said finally. “He’s not ready.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I wasn’t ready when my mother died. I wasn’t ready to hear about her illness, her pain, her fear. I needed time. Elijah needs time too.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know. However long it takes.”
Julian put the letter in the box and closed the lid.
The tenth letter was different.
Dear Elijah,
I’m not going to write anymore.
Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve given up. But because I’ve realized that my letters are for me, not for you. They’re my way of feeling close to you, of holding on, of pretending that I’m still your mother.
But I’m not your mother. Not anymore. Your mothers are Julian and Micah — the people who chose you, who love you, who wake up every day and decide to be your parents.
I gave birth to you. They raised you. There’s a difference.
I’m not going to disappear. I’ll still be here, if you ever want to find me. I’ll still be clean. I’ll still be sober. I’ll still be hoping.
But I’m not going to write.
This is my last letter.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m letting you go.
Goodbye, Elijah.
Love,
Maria
Julian read the letter three times.
“She’s giving up,” Julian said.
“She’s letting go. There’s a difference.”
“She’s abandoning him again.”
“She’s setting him free.” Micah took the letter from Julian’s hands. “She’s doing the hardest thing a parent can do. She’s putting his needs above her own.”
Julian stared at him. “You’re defending her.”
“I’m understanding her. That’s not the same thing.”
“Do you think she means it?”
Micah folded the letter carefully and placed it in the box. “I think she’s trying. I think that’s all any of us can do.”
Elijah asked about his birth mother for the first time on a Sunday.
They were eating breakfast — pancakes, Elijah’s favorite — when he looked up from his plate and said, “Daddy, where did I come from?”
Julian nearly choked on his coffee.
“What do you mean?” Julian asked.
“Like, before you and Papa. Where did I come from?”
Julian looked at Micah. Micah nodded.
“Elijah,” Julian said, “you came from a woman named Maria. She was your birth mother. She loved you very much, but she was sick. She couldn’t take care of you the way you deserved.”
“Is she still sick?”
“She’s getting better.”
“Does she think about me?”
“I think she thinks about you every day.”
Elijah was quiet for a moment. He pushed his pancake around his plate with his fork.
“Can I see her?” Elijah asked.
Julian’s heart stopped. “What?”
“Can I see her? Just once? I just want to know what she looks like.”
Julian looked at Micah. Micah’s eyes were wet.
“Not yet, buddy,” Micah said. “Maybe one day. But not yet.”
Elijah nodded. He didn’t argue. He didn’t cry. He just went back to eating his pancakes.
But Julian couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. That Elijah was growing up. That the questions would keep coming. That one day, they would have to give him answers they weren’t ready to give.
That night, Julian couldn’t sleep.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Micah’s soft breathing. The box was in the closet — ten letters, ten windows into the soul of a woman he wanted to hate but couldn’t.
“What are you thinking about?” Micah murmured.
“I’m thinking about Maria.”
“What about her?”
“I’m thinking about what it must be like to love someone so much that you let them go.”
Micah turned over and wrapped his arm around Julian’s waist. “It’s the hardest kind of love.”
“Is it the bravest?”
“I don’t know.” Micah pressed a kiss to Julian’s shoulder. “But it’s the kind of love I hope we never have to give.”
Julian closed his eyes. “Me too.”
The letters stopped coming.
The box sat on the top shelf of the closet, gathering dust. Julian thought about throwing it away — about burning the letters, erasing Maria Webb from their lives forever. But every time he reached for the box, his hand stopped.
Because Maria wasn’t a villain. She was a woman who had made terrible choices, who had hurt the people she loved, who was trying — desperately, imperfectly — to be better.
She was human.
And Julian, of all people, knew what it was like to be human.