come to me. When you scraped your knees or were picked on by the upper kids, my arms were always the ones you wanted. It means the world to me to know that, at least for one of my children, I was their rock.
But even if you didn’t love me the way that you do, without any sort of worry or restraint, I’d still be incredibly proud of you. You’re coming into your own as a musician, and the sounds of you playing your violin or just singing around the house are the loveliest, most soothing sounds in all the world. I wish I could give you a better stage, America. You deserve so much more than standing in the shadows at stuffy parties. I keep hoping you’ll be one of the lucky ones, the breakouts. I think Kota has a chance at it, too. He’s gifted at what he does. But I feel like Kota would fight for it, and I’m not sure you have that instinct in you. You were never a cutthroat kind of girl, the way some of the other lowers can be. And that’s part of why I love you, too.
You’re good, America. You’d be surprised at how rare that is in this world. I’m not saying you’re perfect; having dealt with some of your temper tantrums, I know that’s far from the truth! But you’re kind, and you ache for things to be fair. You’re good, and I suspect you see things in this world that no one else sees, not even me.
And I wish I could tell you how much I see.
As I’ve been writing these letters to your brothers and sisters, I’ve felt the need to pass on wisdom. I see in them, even in little Gerad, the things in their personalities that could make every year more difficult if they don’t make the effort to fight against the hardness in life. I don’t quite feel that urge with you.
I sense that you won’t let the world push you into a life you don’t want. Maybe I’m wrong, so let me at least say this: fight, America. You might not want to fight for the things that most others would fight for, like money or notoriety, but fight all the same. Whatever it is that you want, America, go after it with all that you have in you.
If you can do that, if you can keep from letting fear make you settle for second best, then I can’t ask for anything more from you as a parent. Live your life. Be as happy as you can be, let go of the things that don’t matter, and fight.
I love you, kitten. So much that I can’t find the words to say it. I could paint it maybe, but I can’t fit a canvas in this envelope. Even then it would never do you justice. I love you beyond paint, beyond melodies, beyond words. And I hope you will always feel that, even when I’m not around to tell you so.
Love, Dad
I wasn’t sure at what point I had started crying, but it was hard to make out the last of the letter. I wished so badly I’d had a chance to tell him I loved him the same way. And for a minute there, I could feel it, that warmth of absolute acceptance.
I looked up and saw that Kenna was crying, too, still trying to make her way through the letter. Kota looked confused as he flipped past the pages, seeming to go over them again.
Turning away, I pulled out the little note, hoping it wasn’t nearly as touching as his letter. I wasn’t sure I could take any more of that today.
America,
I’m sorry. When we visited, I went to your room and found Illéa’s diary. You didn’t tell me it was there; I just figured it out. If there’s any trouble from this, the blame is mine. And I’m sure there will be repercussions because of who I am and because of who I told. I hate to betray you that way, but trust that I did it hoping that your future and everyone else’s could be better.
Look unto the North Star,
Your everlasting guide.
Let truth, honor, all that’s right,
Be always by your side.
Love you,
Shalom
I stood there for several minutes, trying to riddle this out. Repercussions? Who he was and who he had told? And what was with that poem?
Slowly, August’s words came back to me, that my display on the Report wasn’t