cherished. I hoped the territory would allow Joe to heal. I should have known that it wouldn’t be enough. It didn’t need to be, because the most remarkable thing happened.
You came into our world.
You know what happened next. There is no need to rehash that here. I have much to tell you, and the hour grows late.
Joe made his choice. I should have stopped him. But I couldn’t, and for that, I’m sorry. You didn’t know what it meant, the gifting of a wolf of stone, and how could you? For all you knew, we were just a normal family, and there was something so terribly wonderful about that. We did not do right by you. In fact, it could be argued we took advantage of you. I don’t know if that makes me any better than the man who hurt my son in the first place. I’m sorry.
Joe is kind. His empathy for all things is staggering. Once, when he was four years old, he found a wounded bird in the forest surrounding Caswell. He came to me in tears, asking me why the bird couldn’t fly away and be with its friends. I told him that was sometimes the way of things, that for all the beauty in the world, there were harsh lessons to be learned. The bird would most likely not survive. I tried to take it from him, from the shoebox he’d put it in, but he wouldn’t let me. He said he would help it heal, that he would take care of it until it could return to the sky.
And he did. He did just that.
For weeks he was diligent in its care: he fed it, he gave it water. His mother helped him weave a little nest of twigs and bits of string. I prepared for the day the bird died, ready to impart on my son the cruel but necessary lesson of death and all that it entails.
The bird healed.
It gained strength, and on a sunny day, he took it outside. He set the box on the ground and told it that it was free, that it could go home.
It did.
It flew away.
Joe watched it until it disappeared into the trees.
Then he turned to me and said, “See, Daddy? See? It just takes time.”
How momentous that moment was. How humbling.
It just takes time. I’ve never forgotten the lesson my son taught me.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Joe is sarcastic, a byproduct of his brothers. If God exists, he or she must have a sharp sense of humor to give me such mouthy children. They are aggravating and make me want to pull my hair out at times. But then they’ll look at me with the same eyes as their mother, and I’ll know they are our greatest creation.
He’s quick and smart, more so than I gave him credit for.
He will make a good Alpha.
And I wish he could be anything else.
I often wondered who would see him for who he truly was. Who would see beyond the title, beyond the crown to the very heart of him.
I could never have expected it would be someone like you.
I know you, Oxnard Matheson.
I know you.
But there are times I still wonder who you are. How did you become the man I saw just this morning? How did you prevail over all life threw in your path? I won’t be so self-centered to think we played a major part in any of it. No, that honor goes to your mother. She, like you, like Joe, weathered all that was flung upon her and still made it through to the other side. And what’s more, she did it because she knew you were counting on her to do so. I hope you realize that. Once you finish this letter, and if you haven’t done so today, tell her you love her. We never know when it could be the last time we can say such things.
Whatever you decide, I know you’ll be part of Joe’s life, and he will be grateful for it. You are your own man, and the world is a wild and wonderful place. I just hope you remember that no matter where your travels take you, we’ll be waiting here for you if you ever decide to come back.
Who are you?
How are you the way you are?
There is no magic in your blood, no wolf underneath your skin.
And yet I see you,