Chapter 40 Ink and Paper
The letter arrived folded twice inside a plain white envelope.
No return address. No official markings.
Just my name written in handwriting I hadn’t seen in years.
Darren handed it to me with his usual composure. “This was forwarded from the correctional facility, Miss Emerson.”
Forwarded.
Meaning it had been inspected first.
Meaning Patrick already knew.
I traced my finger over the ink before I opened it. The paper felt ordinary. Harmless.
It wasn’t.
I took it upstairs instead of opening it in the kitchen. Not because I was afraid of their reactions, but because I wanted my own first.
I sat on the edge of the bed and unfolded the page.
Emerson,
I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I’ve had a lot of time to think. Time changes a man. Prison changes a man. I made mistakes. I was angry. I was under pressure; you never understood. I did what I thought was necessary to keep us afloat.
You always were sensitive. You never understood the weight I carried. You were too much like your mother that way. Emotional. Weak.
But you’re still my daughter.
I hear you’re living well now. I’m glad. I always wanted that for you. You should remember that.
We’ll have a chance to talk soon. I hope you’ll keep an open mind.
Dad.
I read it twice.
Not because I needed to.
Because I wanted to feel if it hurt.
It didn’t.
That surprised me.
The manipulation was obvious. The rewriting of history. The blame shifting. The subtle insult disguised as a reflection.
You never understood.
I folded the letter carefully and set it on the nightstand.
There was no shaking. No tears. No panic attack, clawing up my throat.
Just clarity.
A knock sounded on the door a few minutes later.
“Em?” Drew’s voice.
“Come in.”
He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him. He didn’t ask what I was doing. He didn’t demand to see anything.
He just sat beside me.
“You got it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I considered that.
“He’s consistent,” I said finally.
Drew’s brow furrowed slightly. “How?”
“He still thinks I was the problem. That I didn’t understand. That if I’d been stronger, quieter, less emotional, things would’ve been different.”
Drew’s jaw tightened, but he stayed calm. “And what do you think?”
“I think he’s terrified.”
That made Drew pause.
“Terrified?”
“Yes. Of losing control. Of losing relevance. Of being forgotten.” I picked up the letter again. “This isn’t an apology. It’s a reminder that he still exists.”
Drew nodded slowly. “That’s accurate.”
I looked at him. “I don’t want to respond.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to give him space in my head.”
“Then don’t.”
His simplicity grounded me.
“You’re not angry?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m furious,” he said evenly. “But that’s not useful right now.”
I leaned into his shoulder. “I don’t feel small.”
“Good.”
“I don’t feel scared.”
“Better.”
I tilted my head back to look at him. “I feel annoyed.”
That earned a soft huff of laughter.
“I can work with annoyance,” he said.
Patrick was waiting downstairs.
Of course he was.
He stood near the fireplace, hands in his pockets, posture rigid. Josh and Mike were on either side of the room like silent bookends. Jake lounged on the couch, but his eyes tracked every movement. Darren moved quietly in the background, present without hovering.
I walked into the center of it.
“I read it,” I said.
Patrick’s gaze sharpened. “And?”
“It’s exactly what you’d expect.”
He didn’t ask for the letter.
I appreciated that.
“He thinks prison reformed him,” I continued. “Or at least he wants me to think that.”
“And you don’t,” Mike said flatly.
“No.”
Patrick stepped closer. “The parole motion is real.”
“I figured.”
“They’re reviewing it earlier than expected.”
“Because of behavior?”
“Because of paperwork,” Josh replied quietly. “Technicalities.”
I nodded slowly.
“And the car?” I asked.
“We’re still confirming,” Patrick said. “But the name that surfaced is someone who used to run small errands for him. Nothing high-level. But loyal.”
“Loyal to money or loyal to him?”
“Hard to say.”
I folded my arms loosely. “Then let’s say it doesn’t matter.”
All five of them looked at me.
“He wants attention,” I continued. “He wants a reaction. He wants to see if I’ll flinch.”
“And will you?” Jake asked gently.
“No.”
The word felt solid.
Patrick searched my face like he was waiting for a crack.
“There isn’t one,” I told him.
His hand lifted, brushing my jaw lightly. “I don’t want him near you.”
“He isn’t near me.”
“He’s trying.”
“And he’s failing.”
Silence settled.
Not heavy. Not suffocating.
Measured.
“Are you coming to the hearing?” Josh asked.
“Yes.”
Mike inhaled sharply.
“It’s my decision,” I said calmly. “And I won’t hide from him.”
Patrick’s thumb traced slow lines along my cheek. “Then we stand with you.”
“Not in front of me,” I corrected gently. “With me.”
His mouth curved slightly. “With you.”
That night, when I finally climbed into bed, I didn’t feel haunted.
I felt prepared.
The letter sat folded in my drawer. Not torn. Not burned. Just contained.
It didn’t control me anymore.
It didn’t even sting.
For years, his words had shaped how I saw myself. Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak.
Now I knew better.
Sensitivity was awareness.
Emotion was strength.
And weakness had never belonged to me.
It had always belonged to him.
As I drifted off to sleep, Josh’s arm tight around my waist and Mike’s hand resting over mine, I realized something quiet and powerful.
He could write letters.
He could file motions.
He could try to reach into my life from behind bars.
But he didn’t get to define it anymore.
Not even in ink.