Chapter 9 - Tyler’s Letter
Three years after the trial, I finally opened Tyler’s letter.
Not the old one.
A new one.
He was still incarcerated.
The first paragraph almost made me close it.
I’m sorry for what happened.
Too vague.
Then:
No. That sentence is cowardly.
I kept reading.
I pushed you.
I wanted you to fall.
I wanted people to laugh.
I didn’t want to break your spine, but for years I used that distinction to make myself feel less guilty.
Better.
He wrote about Dad.
Not blaming him.
Explaining.
Dad taught me cruelty could be masculinity.
Then:
I chose to enjoy the lesson.
That sentence surprised me.
He described therapy.
Anger.
Shame.
Memories.
He remembered the pool.
The basement.
The bike.
More than he had initially admitted.
Then:
You spent your childhood learning to watch me enter a room. I spent mine learning that making you afraid made me important.
I stopped reading for several minutes.
Near the end:
I do not expect you to visit.
I do not expect forgiveness.
If I get out and you never want me near you, I will respect it.
That mattered.
I wrote one reply.
Keep doing the work even if I never come back into your life.
He answered:
I will.
I hoped he meant it.
Whether I ever saw him again remained undecided.
May you like
Change did not create entitlement.
Even real change.
