Her mother.
The man who left.
The way she learned to survive by being everything people needed.
The handwriting tilts as it goes on. Bigger. Messier. Desperate.
I fold it back up before I get to the end and put it in the drawer.
I don’t throw it away.
I also don’t call her.
Instead, Friday night, I pack a bag and drive north.
The highway thins out somewhere past Concord. Trees close in. Cell service drops. The radio fades in and out until I shut it off completely.
New Hampshire hasn’t changed.
The same crack runs down the driveway, splitting the concrete like a fault line. The same shingle on the left side of the roof has faded lighter than the rest, no matter how many times we’ve replaced it. The porch light still flickers before it steadies.
Time moves slower here.
Or maybe it just never learned how to rush.
My mother is at the stove when I walk in.
Same apron. Same pot. Same habit of stirring something that probably doesn’t need stirring anymore. She looks up when she hears the door, relief flashing across her face before she schools it into a smile.
“You didn’t call,” she says.
“I know.”
She doesn’t scold me. She just steps into me, arms tight, like she’s checking that I’m solid.
Her hands feel smaller than I remember.
At dinner, she talks about the neighbor’s dog, the price of oil, the church down the road collecting blankets. Normal things. Safe things.
I look around the kitchen.
The linoleum is curling at the corners. The cabinet under the sink has a water stain shaped like a continent. The window frame needs paint.
I’ve been paying the bills. Sending checks. Covering repairs.
But I’ve still left her here.
Saturday morning, I fix the loose railing on the back steps. Sunday, I climb onto the roof and replace the bad shingle. My hands remember this work. The ache in my shoulders feels earned.
At night, I sleep like I haven’t in months.
No phone buzzing.
No footsteps pacing.
No fear of waking up to shouting or silence sharp enough to cut.
Just wind in the trees and the old house settling around me.
