Chapter 2 - The Letter in Dad's Desk
Dad had written the letter two months before he died.
His name was Michael Miller.
He was a high school science teacher who could repair almost anything except the kitchen toaster.
He smelled like coffee, sawdust, and the peppermint gum he kept in his coat pocket.
When I was little, he taught me how to identify constellations.
He said the stars looked different depending on where you stood, but they were always there.
I hadn't understood why that mattered until he was gone.
Now I sat on my bedroom floor with his letter open in my lap.
My little star,
If you're reading this, I hope it's because you've found my secret stash of terrible jokes.
I smiled.
Dad loved terrible jokes.
But if something is wrong, I want you to remember something important.
Being brave doesn't mean handling everything alone.
My smile disappeared.
I kept reading.
If you ever need help and I'm not there, call Aunt Nora.
She loves you. She knows what to do. And she will always come.
Below the letter was a phone number.
I recognized it.
Aunt Nora's.
Mom had told me Nora didn't want to see us anymore.
She said Nora blamed her for Dad's death, which made no sense because Dad had died after a sudden illness.
But Mom hated when I asked questions.
So eventually, I stopped.
I looked at the number.
Then at my phone.
My hands shook.
What if Mom found out?
What if Nora really hated us?
What if she told me to stop bothering her?
Then I read Dad's sentence again.
She will always come.
I called.
It rang twice.
A woman answered.
“Hello?”
My throat tightened.
“Aunt Nora?”
Silence.
Then a sharp breath.
“Sydney?”
I nodded even though she couldn't see me.
“Hi.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her voice broke.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Is your mother there?”
I stared at the floor.
“No.”
A pause.
“Where is she?”
“Europe.”
Another silence.
Then Nora spoke very carefully.
“Who is staying with you?”
I couldn't answer.
“Sydney?”
“Nobody.”
I heard something fall on the other end.
Then Nora said:
“Listen to me. Are you safe right now?”
“I think so.”
“Are the doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Have you eaten?”
I looked at the half sandwich beside me.
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“Peanut butter.”
“When did your mother leave?”
I swallowed.
“Five days ago.”
Nora didn't speak.
I began crying.
“I'm sorry.”
“Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“Mom said you're angry with us.”
Her voice changed.
“Your mother said what?”
I wiped my eyes.
“She said you didn't want to see me.”
I heard Nora take a shaky breath.
“Sydney, I've been trying to reach you for almost a year.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I've called. I've written letters. I've come by the house.”
I looked toward my bedroom door.
“Mom said you stopped caring.”
“No.”
Nora's voice broke.
“Never.”
I started crying harder.
She waited until I could breathe.
Then said:
“I'm going to get help, and I'm coming to you. Stay inside. If you feel unsafe or need urgent help before I arrive, call 911.”
“Okay.”
“I'm going to stay on the phone for a little while.”
She asked me about school.
My favorite books.
Whether I'd seen the neighbor's new dog.
Ordinary things.
Things adults ask children when they want them to feel less frightened.
Then another voice came through the phone.
A man.
Nora's husband, David.
He said he was calling the appropriate child-protection authorities so that somebody could assess my situation and arrange safe care.
My stomach tightened.
“Am I in trouble?”
Nora answered immediately.
“No, Sydney.”
“Will Mom be mad?”
“I can't control how your mother feels. My job is to make sure you're safe.”
I cried again.
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
I looked through the peephole.
Aunt Nora stood outside wearing jeans and a blue cardigan.
She looked older than I remembered.
Her hair was shorter.
But she had the same kind brown eyes.
I opened the door.
She dropped her bag.
Then crouched.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
I threw my arms around her.
She held me for a long time.
When she finally pulled back, she looked at my face.
Then toward the kitchen.
“Can we get you something to eat?”
I nodded.
She opened the refrigerator.
Stopped.
Then looked at the pantry.
I saw her jaw tighten.
She didn't say anything cruel about Mom.
She just took out her phone.
“David, could you pick up groceries?”
Then she turned to me.
“What sounds good?”
I thought carefully.
“Chicken soup?”
She smiled.
“Absolutely.”
That afternoon, a child-protection worker named Marisol came to the house.
She spoke with me gently.
She asked what Mom had said.
When she'd left.
Whether anyone had been checking on me.
Whether I had enough food.
I told her everything.
I even showed her the twenty-dollar bill I'd folded around the remaining change.
Marisol explained that adults were responsible for arranging appropriate supervision and care for children.
She told me I hadn't done anything wrong by calling Nora.
The adults discussed the immediate safety arrangements.
After the necessary assessment and authorizations, I was allowed to stay temporarily with Aunt Nora and Uncle David while the situation was investigated.
Nora helped me pack.
Clothes.
Schoolbooks.
My stuffed rabbit.
Dad's sweatshirt.
Then I went into his old study.
There was one thing I wanted to take.
His photograph.
He was smiling in front of our kitchen window, holding a birthday cake he'd accidentally decorated upside down.
I placed it carefully in my backpack.
Then I noticed something beneath the picture frame.
A business card.
A woman's name.
Margaret Hayes.
Trust and Estate Administration.
And on the back, in Dad's handwriting:
For Sydney's future.
I stared at the card.
May you like
Then took it too.
I didn't know it yet, but the card was going to explain why Mom had been so determined to keep Aunt Nora away.
