This was what Sam and I have called Plan B.
Even though Plan A was still worth a shot.
I place the first envelope in her hand.
“This one is for dad,” I say. “I wrote it for me, not for him. It's my way of closing the door. When you’re ready to walk away, please leave this letter behind.”
She nods gravely.
I hand her the next one.
“Here’s a pre-loaded phone card for the booth near the roadhouse, and a few of my business cards. Hide them in more than one place. Memorise the number if you can.”
Her face is solemn.
“Call me any time,” I continue. “Anytime, Ma. Even in the middle of the night. I mean it. I will come and get you. I have friends who will help make it happen if you ever want to cross that line. Just say the word.”
Her breath shallows.
She’s fighting an internal battle of anguish and possibility.
Options, for the first time in her life.
But also, a fear of the great unknown.
The real world is a dark void she has no tangible experience of.
I know that feeling well.
I rest my hand on her shoulder.
Seeing her cry is setting me off too.
One more envelope.
Large and padded.
My biggest risk.
“This envelope has cash for groceries and medical supplies.Justfor you. Whatever you need until I hear from you, okay? Donotlet him find this. Promise me. You know what he'll do.”
She doesn’t have to guess.
She knows all too well.
And I can see it so clearly.
She’s thinking about what I’ve said.
Really thinking about it this time.
Tears track down our cheeks.
I’m barely holding it together as I speak those final words.
I’ve created a life where both of us can finally be safe and happy.
But the next step has to be hers.
