Chapter 17 - TYLER REMEMBERS THE KICK
Tyler barely remembered the money fight by ten.
He remembered the kick.
Bodies remember simple things.
A shoe.
Hardwood.
His mother gasping.
For years he hated men wearing brown dress shoes.
Then less.
No forced exposure.
No symbolic confrontation.
Time.
Therapy.
Safety.
At twelve he asked if Richard was still alive.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Living in a condo after finishing his sentence and supervision.”
“Can he come here?”
“No.”
“Can he call?”
“Only if you choose and the legal restrictions allow.”
Tyler thought.
“No.”
Fine.
Richard wrote letters through counsel.
I kept them unopened until the children were old enough to choose.
Megan read hers at eighteen.
Tyler refused.
At twenty-one, he changed his mind.
Richard wrote:
I told myself I kicked you because you came between adults.
Tyler stopped.
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
He continued.
The truth is that you did exactly what a child does when he sees his mother in danger, and I punished you for making me see what I had become.
Tyler’s face changed.
“Better.”
Then:
I am sorry.
Tyler did not reply.
No obligation.
He kept the letter for several months.
Then recycled it while cleaning his apartment.
May you like
Objects return to paper.
Good.
