Chapter Twenty-Two
Wendy
December
Dear Wendy,
My therapist here told me to write you a letter. He said that sometimes writing things is easier than saying them out loud.
I'm still going to say them out loud. That is, if you want to see me.
I need you to know something—
I never stopped loving you. Not for a single second.
My distance was not from something you did. My distance was from my own issues that I was scared to face.
I've been struggling mentally, which is still hard to admit in a letter. It took me two days just to build up the courage to write that out. I think it's pathetic, but my therapist says it's progress.
And to stop insulting myself—which is an ongoing battle when you've hurt the ones you love most.
I'm not ready to tell you it all just yet. Not through a letter, anyway. I want to do that in person.
I owe you that much, baby.
Instead, I want to take ownership of all the ways I wronged you, so that it's written down and can never be denied by me.
If I ever do, you take this letter out, and you show me the words I've written, and you hold my ass accountable.
Wendy,
I failed you as a husband.
I failed to be a parent to our boys.
I left you alone to raise our sons.
I made you feel rejected.
I made you feel invisible.
I neglected you.
I dismissed you.
I yelled at you.
I missed the therapy appointment on purpose.
And I feel sick to my stomach, because you didn't deserve any of that.
You are a fantastic mother, a wonderful wife, and, more importantly, a good and kind person.
And I'm so sorry that I deliberately hurt you.
I'm never going to stop apologizing to you, not until I earn your forgiveness.
Even if you can never forgive me, I'm still going to try.
I'm going to show up. I'm going to be present. I am going to be the man that you deserve. I'm going to be the father that our boys deserve.
When I'm out of here, I'm going to crawl my way back to you, Wendy.
Either as a husband or as a co-parent, whatever you'll allow me.
But I need you to know that you're it for me, baby.
The very second I saw you, just as I know now, twenty years later.
Wendy Durant, you are the love of my life. I'm sorry I wasted so much time this past year, but I'm gonna earn it all back, if you'll let me—day by day, second by second.
I'm going to prove to you that I'm still your Atlas.
Kiss the boys for me. I'm sorry I'm missing Liam's birthday.
Tell them I miss them so much, and I'll be home soon. It might not mean much to them right now.
I wrote them their own letters, and I hope they read them.
But, if they don't yet, if they can't yet, it's okay.
I'm going to prove it to them.
And I'm gonna prove it to you.
Your Atlas.
I love you, Wendy.
Always have.
"Always will," I tearfully whisper, my hand going over my mouth to muffle a sob.
I saw the letters when I got home after work, the boys carrying in their bags from the mall as I oohed and awed over the Santa photos, teasing them that they were so cute that I was going to make a million copies and paste them all over town.
Noah giggled while Liam rolled his eyes. From the number of bags in their hands, Aunt Taylor certainly spoiled them, so I sent them upstairs to put their loot away while I checked the mail.
My heart dropped when I saw the three letters, one addressed to each of us, all from the rehab facility where Atlas was.
My shaky fingers brushed over the blocky handwriting on the envelope—Atlas' handwriting.
While the boys were distracted upstairs, I ripped open the one with my name on it.
The sweet words in this letter pushes me even deeper into that gray area.
I’m still in love, still hurt, still aching for him, still needing some distance, still wanting to wrap myself in his embrace, still scared that it's all only temporary.
And still so goddamn hopeful.
◆◆◆
While we eat dinner at the kitchen table, I bring up the letters.
"Something came in the mail today for you guys."
"Christmas presents?" Liam asked hopefully, sharing a smile with Noah.
"My brushes!" Noah chirps, referring to the rather luxurious paint brushes he asked Santa for in his letter.
They're wrapped nicely, hiding in my closet, right next to Liam's new gaming console.
"You know Santa brings them on Christmas and not a day before."
Liam and Noah share a look but don't say anything, still entertaining my delusion that my babies are young enough to believe in Santa.
"No. You both received a letter from your Daddy."
Silence stretches, almost uncomfortably, as both boys process my words.
Liam breaks it with a harsh laugh. "No thanks. Don't really need to read a letter from the insane asylum."
My eyes go wide at his mean words.
Diane, Emmett, and I had sat down to tell them that their Daddy was going away for a month to a clinic for mental health. We told them that his mind was sick and he needed help.
This was a conversation I felt unprepared for. Not uncommon in parenthood, everything is a new experience for your children, but I tried to navigate it the best I can.
I don't think Noah fully understood, and he had retreated into himself during the conversation.
Liam had barely reacted when we told him.
I didn't want to push the boys, so I decided to let it rest and let them come to me if he had any questions. I worried if I pushed too hard, they would pull away even further.
Unfortunately, I can't repair their relationship with Atlas myself.
Right now it seems it's just more of the waiting game until he comes home and puts in the effort.
But I think this is the boiling point for my oldest. That resentment that has been swirling around his mind for the last month has finally erupted.
I expected anger, but I didn’t expect cruelty from him.
"Liam!" I exclaim at the same time Noah asks me, "What's an insane asylum?"
"Where they send psychos and crazies like Dad," Liam answers him before I can, his voice mocking.
"Liam Emmett Durant!" I shout, surprising even myself. I’ve never been one to raise my voice, especially not to my sons, but the way he’s just spoken about his father made me angrier than I’ve ever been.
Despite still being angry with Atlas—despite everything—I won't allow anyone to reduce my husband to that. Even our son. "Is that how I raised you to talk about anyone—let alone your father?"
"Yeah, some father," he scoffs, her lip curling as he sneers at me. "Some husband, too, huh, Mom? Look how much he cares about you! Treating you like shit, and you just taking it!"
My heart drops. "Liam—"
He stands abruptly from the table, shoving his plate away.
"I don't care what he has to say. You can burn that letter," he growls before racing out of the kitchen. His footsteps pound up the stairs, his beddoor slamming hard enough to echo through the house.
I sit back down slowly, forcing myself not to cry in front of Noah. I scrub a hand down my face, inhaling deeply, grounding myself before I look at him.
"Is Daddy in an insane asylum?"
His voice is so small that it breaks my heart. Sighing, I shake my head and try to smile at Noah.
"No, baby. Daddy's away at the Doctor's. They're taking care of him."
He frowns, twisting his fork between his fingers. "His head is still hurting?"
"His mind is hurting him," I tell him gently, choosing my words carefully. "So he's with doctors who are taking care of him."
"Is that why he didn't want to talk to me?" He asks, making my chest tighten painfully.
"I think so," I nod, before giving him a small smile. "And I think he feels really bad about it, and he wants to fix it."
I almost lose the battle with my tears when Noah's soft voice asks, "Can I read my letter from him?"
He looks at me with an uncertain expression, like he's not sure whether to read it or to follow his brother's footsteps. I'm glad he feels safe enough to make his own choice.
"Of course you can, baby," I say with a small smile. "Do you want me to read it with you?"
Noah frowns, thinking about it before he shakes his head. "No, it's okay, Mama."
"Okay," I nod, pride swelling in my chest toward my youngest.
I walk over to the counter and grab Noah's letter out of my purse. When I hand it to him, he takes it only after a moment of hesitation.
"Can I go read it now?"
I nod, pressing a kiss to his head. "If you want to talk about it after, come find me. Okay?"
He stands up from the table, giving me a quick hug, and heads upstairs.
I take my time cleaning up dinner, loading our plates into the dishwasher, wiping down the counters, and giving Liam some time to calm down before I talk to him.
Also, so I can really think about what to say to him.
This is a conversation I need to tread delicately with. There has to be a balance—protecting Atlas' dignity, while also validating my son's feelings.
Liam is not wrong to feel hurt, angry, and betrayed. I don't want to dismiss those feelings; I want him to work through them. I want to help him work through them.
When I finally knock on Liam's door, I hear him say, "Come in," in a short, low tone.
I walk into his bedroom, seeing him lying on his bed watching basketball highlights. He doesn't look at me, but he mutes the television off to let me know he's listening.
I sit on the edge of his bed and start softly.
"You're hurt," I whisper, Liam's jaw tensing. "I know you're hurt. I know he hurt you, and I'm... I'm so sorry, Liam. But you will not talk about your father—or anyone—seeking help the way that you did."
His eyes shift over the room, not looking at me, but the look on his face reads regret.
"What if someone spoke about Birdie like that?"
That gets his attention. He looks at me with his dark eyes blazing, hand curling into a fist, gritting his teeth and giving me his answer to what he would do.
So much like your father.
"Daddy is not in an insane asylum. He is not crazy. He... He was suffering mentally, baby. He was hurting. What your father is going through is something he didn't ask for. And he's trying to get better now..."
My voice breaks, emotion clogging my throat. "But he hurt us, so it's... confusing, right?"
Liam nods.
"I feel the same way," I say quietly. "I love your father, and I want him to get better—but he still hurt me. I think both those things can be true at the same time. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," Liam whispers, slowly opening up.
"Is that how you feel?"
"He didn't hurt me," he insists stubbornly, before sighing and sitting up.
"I don't know, I just... feel angry. He stopped being interested in us.
I'd ask him to shoot hoops, and he'd say later—but later never came.
He wouldn't come to my games. He didn't even ask about it.
Same with Noah. Same with you. Why is he trying now? "
I nod at his words, because he's right to feel them. And he did all of that to Liam, to Noah, to me. I can't excuse it.
"I think sometimes it takes a while to see when something is wrong," I say, inwardly referring to my own situation.
I didn't know how unhappy I was until that day Atlas missed the appointment. That was the moment I made a choice: to change, to grow, to actually move toward my own happiness.
"But then we do, and we do everything in our power to make things right. I think that's what your dad is going through now. I think he really wants to make things right with you and your brother now. I think he's really sorry."
He doesn't respond, but the anger in his face softens into something more thoughtful.
I wrap my arm around his shoulders. "I don't expect you to forgive him. Not yet. Not when he hasn't made things right with you, and getting help doesn't erase the hurt—but it does matter. It means he's trying. That's a brave thing."
Liam thinks over it for a minute before he nods, understanding.
"I didn't mean—" Liam starts, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean to disrespect you, Mama."
"I know, baby."
"I'm sorry for cursing at you."
I press a kiss to his head and smile.
"I know, baby. I'm washing your mouth out with soap next time, though," I joke, and he huffs a laugh, reminding him of a certain movie we watch over and over again on Christmas.
"I wanted to ask if you would be open to talking to someone," I ask Liam, keeping my voice soft and gentle. This has been something I’ve been thinking about over the last month, inspired by Atlas. It’s something Imani gently suggested on our last phone call—family therapy for the boys.
“All of us could go.”
"Talk to someone?"
"Yeah, like a therapist," I tell him, and his eyes light up a bit.
"Oh," he says, ears going a little red. "...Birdie has a therapist."
"Yeah?" I ask with a smile.
"She says it helps. So..." Liam shrugs. "Yeah."
"Thank you," I whisper, squeezing him in a hug. He only groans and protests a little bit, making me laugh before I walk to the door. "Lights out at 9."
"Mama?" he calls, catching my attention at the door. "Can I... I think I might want to read it, but... later."
"Whenever you want, baby," I smile.
Later in bed, when I reach out to Atlas' side, I press the letter to my nose, trying to catch any of that familiar scent. I don't know if my mind is playing tricks on me, but I think I smell him and it... makes me feel safe.
I clutch the letter to my chest, I think of Atlas, and I breathe.
Hurt and hope, blooming in my chest.
The hurt stays still, but the hope seems to be spreading.