The Fairfax County police department contacted my mom last weekend.
They had some of my father's belongings. Could she come and pick them up? They were very kind.
I don't know why I didn't expect letters. I thought there might be clothes, or a bag. Or an umbrella. At least once he had an umbrella with him, which I've always thought was interesting. I took it as a sign of not being totally sure of his course of action.
But what did I know? What do I know?
There were three letters: one to Betty, one to my brother, one to me.
She brought them over last night.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to meet baby Jordan. He wanted to be here for us, with us. And he just couldn't.
All I could do was sit on the floor and sob. It's so unfair.
The world is unfair; I've long known this. It's a lesson best taught early, I think. Although perhaps not so drastically. Life is not fair.
And yet I cry, and repeat myself: I hate it. It's just not fair.
Is it better to get a goodbye note nearly two years late, or not at all?
I don't know.