Chapter 5 - The Letter She Never Sent
“Rachel.”
Sophie’s warning came sharper this time.
Rachel ignored it.
“She wrote six pages.”
“That’s enough.”
“Then she tore them up.”
I looked at Sophie.
“Why?”
Sophie’s eyes remained on her sister.
“Please leave.”
Rachel’s anger faded.
“Soph.”
“Please.”
Rachel squeezed her shoulder and walked out.
I stayed near the door.
“I won’t ask about the letter.”
Sophie gave me a tired look.
“You’re already asking with your face.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“That might be your least convincing military skill.”
I sat back down.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then Sophie surprised me.
“I wrote that I was scared.”
I remained silent.
“I wrote that I hated you.”
That hurt.
“I wrote that I still loved you.”
That hurt more.
She looked toward the window.
“And I wrote that if I died, I didn’t want your last memory of me to be that handshake in the lawyer’s office.”
“Sophie.”
“I didn’t send it because I knew what you would do.”
“What?”
“You would come back.”
“I wish I had.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You would have come back for the wrong reason.”
I frowned.
“What wrong reason?”
“Duty.”
Her answer was immediate.
“You would have stood beside me because you were Colonel Parker.”
“Because you don’t abandon wounded people.”
“Because obligation makes sense to you.”
“But I didn’t want a commanding officer.”
Her voice softened.
“I wanted Ethan.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I don’t know where he went.”
“I do.”
She looked directly at me.
“He got scared.”
That simple answer hit harder than every accusation.
I had spent my life believing fear was something to overcome.
Sophie understood something I didn’t.
Sometimes fear became a place to hide.
A nurse entered to check her IV.
Later that afternoon, Sophie was cleared to leave if her fever remained down.
Rachel offered to drive her home.
I assumed Sophie would choose her.
Instead, she looked at me.
“Can you take me?”
Rachel looked shocked.
So did I.
“Of course.”
The drive was quiet.
Sophie directed me to an apartment complex ten minutes from our old house.
When she opened the door, I understood how completely she had disappeared from my life.
There was almost nothing inside.
A couch.
A small table.
Two boxes that had never been unpacked.
Medication bottles lined the kitchen counter.
A blanket sat folded beside a plastic basin.
On the refrigerator was a treatment calendar.
Seven weeks of appointments.
Seven weeks I had spent telling myself she was moving on.
Then I saw a photograph held beneath a magnet.
It was our wedding picture.
I looked at her.
Sophie noticed.
“I forgot to throw it away.”
I knew she was lying.
Before I could say anything, she pressed a hand against the counter.
Her face drained of color.
“Sophie?”
“I’m fine.”
Then her knees buckled.
This time, I caught her before she fell.
May you like
And as I lifted her into my arms, I realized the hardest part wasn’t that she still needed me.
It was knowing I had once taught her she couldn’t rely on me.
