🔹 Part 8 – A Letter Never Sent
Tom Merrick sat at the old kitchen table, the one with the cigarette burn in the corner and a tiny notch where Josh had once pressed too hard with a fork.
A blank notecard lay in front of him.
The pen shook in his hand, not because of age or cold, but because he hadn’t written to his son in nearly twenty years. Not really. A few Christmas cards. One envelope returned unopened. A typed letter after Lillian passed that Matt never acknowledged.
But this was different.
This wasn’t to fix anything.
It was to say something before it was too late.
He looked out the window. The wind was shaking the birch trees again. The same wind that once carried Sparky back to him. Or maybe not the wind—maybe something older. Something deeper.
He picked up the pen.
And he began.
Matt,
I don’t know if I’ll give you this. Might just leave it here like everything else I never said. But writing it feels important tonight. So here it is.
You were seven when you first asked me why trees lost their leaves. I said, “To survive winter.” That was true. But I didn’t explain it right.
It’s not just about survival. It’s about letting go of what they no longer need, so they don’t break under the weight when the cold sets in. That’s the part I missed.
I carried a lot I didn’t need. Anger. Pride. Fear. Most of it got passed down to you, whether I meant to or not.
I thought being a father meant keeping things firm. Unbending. Turns out, it’s more like being a tree than a stone. You have to know when to let things fall.
I never learned that until too late.
And I’m sorry.
For every time I yelled when I should’ve listened.
For not showing up when you needed me most.
For letting the silence between us grow thick enough to lose the sound of your voice.
You’ve done a good job with Josh. He’s got your fire, but none of your bitterness. That tells me you broke the cycle.
That’s the kind of man I always wanted to be, and the kind I never became—until now, maybe. And only because of you.
Thank you for letting me in again.
Even just a little.
Love,
Dad
Tom read the letter once, then again.
Then he folded it carefully and slipped it into an envelope. He wrote “Matt” on the front in block letters and placed it on the mantel next to the candle. The one he kept lit for Lillian. The flame flickered once as if in approval.
That night, a storm rolled through.
Rain against the windows. Thunder like distant footsteps on the porch.
Tom didn’t sleep much. He sat in the recliner with an afghan over his legs and an old ranger journal in his lap. It still smelled like sweat and cedar, pages full of chicken-scratch notes about trails and wildlife patterns and Lillian’s cookie recipe scribbled in the margins.
At 2:14 a.m., there was a sound at the door.
Not thunder.
Knocking.
He stiffened, set the journal down, and rose slowly.
Peered through the window.
A figure on the porch.
Small.
Soaked.
He opened the door.
Josh stood there, rain dripping from the bill of his baseball cap, his backpack clinging to one shoulder, and a crumpled sleeping bag under the other.
“Dad’s truck broke down outside Fayetteville,” he said. “We’re stuck at a motel.”
Tom stepped aside. “So you walked here?”
Josh shrugged. “Didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”
Tom swallowed hard.
“You hungry?”
Josh nodded. “Always.”
They stayed up until 4 a.m. eating peanut butter toast and telling ghost stories. Josh talked about school. About how his friend Oliver’s mom cried every morning in the car after dropping him off, but smiled too big when she waved goodbye. About how the substitute teacher last week smelled like maple syrup and Vicks. About how sometimes he dreamed of Sparky still waiting on the porch.
Tom listened to every word like it was gospel.
And when the boy finally curled up on the couch and fell asleep, Tom watched over him the way he hadn’t been able to with Matt.
The letter still sat on the mantel.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
But it was there.
And that was a start.
The next morning, the storm had passed.
Sunlight broke over the hills like a blessing. Tom stepped out onto the porch, coffee in hand, and let the warmth touch his face. Behind him, Josh still slept, limbs sprawled like a puppy in a pile of blankets.
Then he saw it.
The deer.
Again.
Standing just across the gravel road.
Watching.
But this time—there was a second figure beside it.
Smaller.
Delicate.
A doe.
They stood together for a long moment before slipping back into the woods.
Tom smiled.
Not everything that returns stays.
Some just come back to make sure you’re alright.
Matt arrived around noon in a borrowed pickup from a mechanic in town. His shirt was wrinkled, hair askew, and he looked like he hadn’t slept much either.
He stepped onto the porch and found Tom already waiting with two mugs of coffee.
Josh was inside, still finishing cereal and flipping through a dusty stack of old Field & Stream magazines.
Matt eyed the envelope on the table.
“What’s this?”
Tom looked down at it. “A letter. For you.”
Matt hesitated. Then picked it up.
He didn’t open it.
Not right away.
Just slipped it into his back pocket.
Tom didn’t ask when he’d read it.
He just said, “You want to go for a walk before you head back?”
Matt nodded.
“I’d like that.”
They didn’t talk much on the trail.
They didn’t need to.
Some bonds are made in silence.
Some healing doesn’t make a sound.
And somewhere in the trees, near a spot where goldenrod now grew in soft clumps along the edge of a sunbeam, the woods whispered their approval.
Letting go didn’t mean forgetting.
And forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting pain.
It just meant choosing to walk forward—
Together.
