I was talking with my brother about our parents’ divorce. We agreed on the date of the separation, the divorce, and the whisking off to Galveston and the subsequent end of summers with Jerry.
“And that was the last contact we had with him,” I said. (The official end the relationship was the big “I will never see you again because it’s just not worth it” speech from Jerry on the drive to the airport. Last contact, good riddance.)
“Well, for you, but he sent me letters,” Dave said.
“What? What? For how long?”
“Two years. Then he stopped.”
What … the actual… Hell. If course, my brother doesn’t remember what these special father-son letters said. And he doesn’t know why they stopped. (We both know why I didn’t get letters: girls don’t carry the family name, so why bother parenting them?)
Also, sad for my brother. I’d rather have a kidnapping and legal action end a relationship than to just have it dwindle away. No wonder he has rejection problems.