(which, unsurprisingly, take up a lot of room), and I haven’t seen them in ages.
“I just think it might make me feel better to see the tapes,” I say, and Chloe nods encouragingly, even though I can tell she doesn’t get it.
If my mom were here, she could talk me through this. I could tell her all about what happened and she’d comfort me, like she did in second grade when Taylor McNaughton made fun of my multiple speech impediments (I ended up correcting them in speech therapy, and Taylor McNaughton got kicked off the volleyball team our senior year for drinking, so, you know . . . boom).
But she’s not here, so she doesn’t know about Drew. She’ll never meet him or hear about our meet-cute or our many awkward almost-kisses or our very non-awkward real kisses (although, let’s be real, I would edit that part when talking to my mom). In fact, she’ll never even see me as an adult woman, one who grew up and fell in love, and that stings way more than Drew storming out of here this morning.
Maybe holding those VHS tapes won’t bring her back, but this morning, I need something that will help me feel a tiny bit closer to her.
I leave Chloe on the couch with a mug of coffee and one of her Spicy Cinnamon Brownies and go up to the attic. It’s one of those perfect movie attics, with the ladder that pulls down. Of course, the attic itself isn’t filled with anything magical like any good ’90s children’s movie would be; instead, it’s mostly filled with Uncle Don’s action-figure collection (all still in their original packaging, obviously). But, as I climb up, I can’t help feeling like something magical could happen up here, like I could find these VHS tapes and suddenly, miraculously, things would get better.
It turns out Uncle Don has been storing way more stuff up here than I thought (like, does he need these Star Trek commemorative dinner plates that I can guarantee we’re never going to eat off of?), and it’s hard to know where the tapes are. In the faint light coming through the tiny, fogged-up window, I brush dust off boxes and try to read what they say.
My mom was never one for organization or tidiness, so many of the boxes are labeled “stuff” or “various knickknacks.” Uncle Don’s, in contrast, have labels like “Star Wars magazines 2000–2016.” I paw through a few boxes, coming across things I’ll want to properly pore over later, but right now I’m on a mission.
I open a box labeled “things from bedroom” (helpful!) and am greeted with a tiny lamb-printed onesie that must’ve belonged to baby me. There’s a pair of baby shoes, a hairbrush, and then a stack of letters.
These must be love letters between my mom and dad; I just know it. The way mom talked about their relationship, it was epic and poetic and although I never knew my dad, I somehow know he was the type of guy to write a love letter. This is the framing device of a great romantic drama—a girl finds her parents’ old love letters, then we flash back to their relationship. Sort of like The Notebook, but not as cheesy.
I’m running through plot points in my head as I unfold the first letter on the stack and start reading. These letters are addressed to my mom, but as I glance at the name on the return address, they aren’t from my dad. They’re from someone named Edwin Smith.
These must’ve been from before she met my dad. I pick up the first letter off the pile and start reading.
This will be the last contact I have with you. I say this knowing full well that it will break your heart, but I have decided not to leave Marie. She found out about us, and she was upset, but we’ve decided to work on our marriage—or at least attempt to. This means that I have to stop meeting with you, calling you, everything. As much as that hurts, it’s the only way.
Please don’t call me, at work or at home, as I won’t be able to answer. You know I’ll always love you. I’ve mailed you all of our correspondence, because I can’t have it in my home but I can’t bear to throw it away.
Edwin
And then, I see the date written at the top of the letter.