Chapter 9: The Letters from the Coast
Every Sunday evening, sitting at the small wooden table in his cabin by the light of an old kerosene lamp, Mark wrote a letter.
He did not write to ask for money. He did not ask to be restored to the trust.
He wrote about the grain patterns of white oak. He wrote about the way the morning mist hung over the sawmill pond at sunrise. He wrote about how he had helped repair the roof of the community center in town, and how he had finally learned how to change the oil in his own truck without asking for help.
And in the fourth month, he wrote about his children:
*Dear Mom,*
*Noah and Clara came to visit the mill this weekend with their aunt. I took them down to the creek and showed them how Dad used to skip flat stones across the water.*
*Noah asked me why I didn't wear a fancy watch anymore. I told him that time is not something you buy to show off; it is something you spend on the people you love.*
*I am so sorry, Mom. I am sorry for the twenty years I spent being ashamed of the very hands that fed me. I don't know if I can ever pay back the debt of what I broke, but I promise you that my children will grow up knowing that their grandmother is the bravest woman who ever lived.*
*Your son,*
*Mark.*
May you like
He sealed the envelope, walked down the gravel road to the rusted mailbox by the highway, and dropped it inside.
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