And here’s the part that became important later: I actually tried to keep a door open. For their sake, not mine.
For years, I wrote to Tara. I had an address from the mutual friend, then another when she moved. Every birthday, every Christmas, every milestone, I sent a short note and a photo. First steps. First day of kindergarten. Mason’s front teeth coming in. Micah in his tiny baseball uniform. I wrote things like, They ask about you. The door is open whenever you’re ready. No pressure, no anger. Just information, in case the mother of my children ever wanted to be one.
I kept copies of every single one. I don’t fully know why. Maybe some part of me always knew.
She never answered. Not once in seventeen years. Not a card, not a call, not a dollar, not a birthday text. The letters went into whatever life she was living with Gerald Maddox, and nothing ever came back. Eventually the last one I sent came back stamped RETURN TO SENDER, and I stopped, because there’s a difference between keeping a door open and standing in a doorway shouting into the dark.
