Chapter 17 - The Letter from ButteTwo weeks before Christmas, a plain white envelope arrived in the mailbox. It had no return address, but the postmark was stamped from Butte, Montana.
Inside was a single piece of lined notebook paper, written in Sabrina’s shaky, uneven handwriting:
Dad, I don't expect you to ever forgive me, and I certainly don't expect to ever see my son again. I'm working at a diner on the highway now. I go to therapy every Tuesday. I finally bought my own map, and I'm coloring in the states one by one, trying to figure out how I lost my way. Tell Diego I'm sorry. Tell him he was never the mistake. — Sabrina
I read the letter twice, standing by the kitchen counter. I didn't hide it, nor did I throw it away. I folded it neatly and placed it inside the back cover of my journal, where the timeline of that dark September week first began.
When Diego walked into the kitchen with his school backpack slung over one shoulder, I looked up from the counter.
May you like
"Who's that from, Grandpa?" he asked, pointing at the envelope.
"Just some old paperwork, buddy," I smiled, putting my arm around his shoulders as we walked toward the back door. "Come on. Let's go check the snow chains on the truck. We've got a mountain to climb this weekend."
