PART 10
A package arrived at the beginning of December,
delivered to my lawyer's office,
as required by the court communication protocol.
My lawyer called me to let me know it was there,
her voice professional,
careful,
neutral.
"It's from Kendra,"
she said,
"addressed to Charlotte."
"Do you want me to dispose of it,"
"or do you want to collect it?"
I thought about it for a long moment,
feeling the old pressure of family expectations trying to crawl back in.
"What is it?"
I asked.
"It looks like a box of old toys,"
my lawyer replied,
"some books,"
"and a handmade sweater."
I took a deep breath,
feeling the cold air fill my lungs,
steadying my thoughts.
"Send it back,"
I said clearly.
There was a small pause on the other end of the line,
not of disapproval,
but of confirmation.
"Are you sure?"
she asked gently.
"Yes,"
I said,
"Charlotte doesn't need old toys,"
"and she doesn't need gifts that come with strings attached."
"If I accept the box,"
"it opens a crack in the door,"
"and I am done with cracks."
"Understood,"
my lawyer said,
"I will return to sender today."
When I hung up,
I felt a brief flash of sadness,
not for myself,
but for the tragedy of a family that only knew how to love through things.
They couldn't offer an apology,
they couldn't offer accountability,
they could only offer a box of items,
hoping it would buy back their access.
But Charlotte's safety was not for sale,
and it could not be bartered for with stuffed animals or sweaters.
When I picked Charlotte up from school that afternoon,
the sky was a heavy,
metallic grey,
promising snow before nightfall.
She ran to me,
her cheeks red from the cold air,
her gloves dangling from her sleeves by strings.
"Can we make hot chocolate?"
she asked,
her eyes wide with hope.
"With extra marshmallows,"
I promised,
taking her bag.
As we walked back to our apartment,
I looked at her face,
so full of simple anticipation,
so untouched by the legal maneuvers happening in offices downtown.
She didn't know about the box,
she didn't know about the refusal,
she didn't know about the boundary I had just reinforced.
She only knew that there was hot chocolate waiting for her,
and a mother who would be there to pour it.
We made the drink together,
watching the white marshmallows melt into the dark liquid,
creating sweet,
sticky swirls.
She sat at the table,
blowing on her mug,
her world small,
secure,
and complete.
The box from Kendra would go back across the state lines,
unopened,
unacknowledged,
a message sent in return without a single word being written.
We were not a destination anymore,
May you like
we were a closed country,
and the borders were absolute.
