CHAPTER 9 – LETTERS FROM DANIEL
The letters were found in Daniel’s garage.
Margaret had avoided cleaning it for almost a year. The space smelled of motor oil, sawdust, and the cedar chips he used for small carpentry projects. Every tool hanging on the wall accused her gently of leaving time unfinished.
Claire came with her.
They opened boxes slowly.
Old tax papers.
Fishing gear.
A broken lamp, which made Margaret laugh and cry at once.
Then a small wooden box hidden beneath a tarp.
Inside were envelopes.
One addressed to Mom.
One to Claire.
One with no name, only the words: For the baby, someday.
Margaret sat down hard on a stool.
Claire covered her mouth.
Daniel had written them before he died. Not because he expected to die, but because he was Daniel, sentimental and dramatic in private.
Margaret opened hers with shaking hands.
Mom,
If I chicken out at dinner, make me tell you anyway. I’m going to be a father. I’m terrified. I’m happy. I think Dad would cry and pretend something was in his eye. Claire is scared you won’t love her, which means she doesn’t know you yet. Please love her before she thinks she has to earn it.
Daniel
Margaret pressed the page to her chest.
Claire was sobbing before she opened hers.
Her letter was longer. Messier. Full of jokes, apology, promises, and a sentence Claire would memorize:
If I leave this world before I figure out how to be brave every day, please know this: loving you already made me better.
The final envelope remained unopened.
For Lily.
Someday.
They placed it in a fireproof box with the ultrasound photo and the DNA confirmation. Not hidden. Protected.
That night, Margaret visited Daniel’s grave alone.
She brought lilies, as always.
But this time she did not only cry.
“You left me instructions,” she said softly. “Bossy boy.”
The wind moved through the trees.
May you like
Margaret smiled through tears.
“I’m listening.”
