Chapter 2 - The Letters Under His BedI stared at the box for almost a full minute before I touched it.
It sat beneath Ethan’s bed, pushed so far into the darkness that only a small corner was visible. The cardboard was old and bent at the edges, like it had been moved many times but never opened.
My son’s room looked different from the one I remembered.
The walls were still painted the same soft blue color.
His bookshelf still held the same collection of adventure novels.
His stuffed bear from when he was three still sat in the corner.
But the room felt smaller.
Or maybe I was finally seeing how much of his life had happened without me.
I knelt beside the bed.
My hands were still shaking.
Not from the fight with Vanessa.
Not from Marcus attacking me.
From the sentence Ethan had whispered.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
I pulled the box out slowly.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
My name was written on every single one.
Daddy.
The first letter was dated six months after I left.
I opened it carefully.
The handwriting was uneven, the letters large and messy.
Like Ethan had written it while still learning how to put his feelings into words.
Dear Daddy,
Today I scored a goal at soccer practice. I looked at the side of the field because I thought you might be there.
Mom said you were busy.
I know you are helping people, so I’m proud of you.
I miss you.
Love,
Ethan.
I closed my eyes.
A memory flashed through my mind.
Ethan at four years old, sitting on my shoulders while we watched a soccer game on television.
“Daddy, when I score my first goal, will you be there?”
I had laughed.
“Of course I will.”
I had believed that promise was unbreakable.
I opened another letter.
Dear Daddy,
Mom said you are probably not coming home because you like your work more.
I told her she was wrong.
She got angry.
I’m sorry.
I’ll be better.
Maybe then you will want to come home.
My breathing stopped.
I read it again.
And again.
The words blurred.
“She said that?”
My voice came out as a whisper.
Behind me, the door creaked.
I turned quickly.
Ethan stood there wearing a dry hoodie, his hair still damp from his shower.
For a moment, we just looked at each other.
Then his eyes moved to the letter in my hand.
His face changed.
“Did you read them?”
I slowly stood.
“Ethan…”
He looked down.
“I didn’t want you to see those.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
But nine-year-old children weren’t good at hiding pain.
Not from their parents.
“Because they’re stupid.”
“No, they’re not.”
“They are.”
He walked into the room and sat on the edge of his bed.
“I was just being a baby.”
I sat beside him.
“No.”
He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.
“I thought you forgot about me.”
The words were quiet.
Almost impossible to hear.
But they hit me harder than anything Vanessa had said.
“I never forgot you.”
“You weren’t here.”
“I know.”
“Everyone else had their dads.”
His voice cracked.
“I had video calls.”
I swallowed.
There was no argument I could make.
No explanation powerful enough to erase two and a half years.
I could tell him about deadlines.
Research.
Responsibilities.
The nights I slept in a laboratory chair because I was trying to finish my work faster.
But none of those things mattered to a child waiting by the door.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Ethan looked at me.
“You say that a lot.”
The honesty hurt.
“Do I?”
He nodded.
“Mom says sorry doesn’t change anything.”
I looked toward the hallway.
Something cold moved through me.
“How long has she been saying things like that?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
That was an answer.
I lowered my voice.
“Ethan.”
He looked at me.
“Did Mom ever tell you not to talk to me?”
His eyes moved away.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“She said you needed space.”
My stomach tightened.
“Space?”
“She said you were busy and calling you too much would make you upset.”
I felt my hands become fists.
For two and a half years, I had called every night.
Every single night.
Sometimes I stayed awake until three in the morning because of the time difference.
Sometimes I left messages when he didn’t answer.
I had blamed myself.
I thought he was growing distant because he was getting older.
I thought maybe a child’s world naturally moved on.
I never imagined someone was standing between us.
“Did you receive my calls?” I asked.
Ethan frowned.
“Most of them.”
“Most?”
He nodded.
“Mom answered sometimes.”
“What did she say?”
His face became uncomfortable.
“Can we not talk about Mom?”
That stopped me.
Not because he defended her.
Because he sounded afraid.
A child should never sound afraid when mentioning a parent.
I placed my hand gently on his shoulder.
“Buddy.”
He looked at me.
“You can tell me anything.”
He stared at the floor.
“Will you get mad?”
“At you?”
He shook his head.
“At Mom.”
I hesitated.
Because the honest answer was yes.
I was furious.
But Ethan didn’t need my anger.
He needed safety.
“I might feel angry,” I admitted.
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“But I won’t blame you. Ever.”
A long silence followed.
Then he whispered:
“Mom said you left because you wanted a different family.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“She said you found people who needed you more than us.”
I stood up.
Not because I wanted to scare him.
Because sitting still suddenly felt impossible.
“Ethan, look at me.”
He looked up.
“There is nothing in this world more important to me than you.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Then why did you leave?”
That question was the one I had avoided answering even in my own mind.
Because the truth was complicated.
I had accepted the overseas research position because Vanessa encouraged me.
Because we agreed it would only be temporary.
Because the project would change our future.
Because she told me she and Ethan would be proud.
I remembered the night before I left.
Vanessa had stood in our kitchen, holding two glasses of wine.
“You have to go,” she told me.
“I don’t want to miss him growing up.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m scared.”
She had smiled.
“I’ll handle everything here.”
I trusted her.
I trusted her with my son.
“I left because I thought I was building something for us,” I told Ethan.
He listened quietly.
“I never left because I didn’t love you.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“Mom said you didn’t even ask about me.”
My chest tightened.
“I asked every day.”
“She said you only called when you remembered.”
I looked at the box.
At all the letters I had never seen.
All the moments I had lost.
Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.
A voice cut through the room.
“What exactly are you doing?”
I turned.
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
She had changed clothes, but the anger on her face remained.
Behind her stood Marcus, his hair still wet, his expression full of hatred.
I immediately stepped between them and Ethan.
“What are you doing in his room?”
Vanessa laughed softly.
“My son’s room?”
I stared at her.
“Our son’s room.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Careful.”
Marcus crossed his arms.
“You broke into a room and went through his things?”
I looked at him.
“He has letters to me that I never received.”
Vanessa’s expression changed for half a second.
Only half a second.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Then she recovered.
“You’re seriously going to accuse me because of some childish notes?”
Ethan stood up.
“Mom…”
She looked at him sharply.
“Go downstairs.”
His face tightened.
“Mom, I—”
“I said go.”
I stepped forward.
“No.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“No?”
“No. He stays.”
Marcus scoffed.
“You don’t get to come back after two years and start giving orders.”
I ignored him.
My eyes stayed on Vanessa.
“Why didn’t I receive these?”
She didn’t answer.
“Vanessa.”
She sighed.
“Because they were unnecessary.”
I felt my blood run cold.
“Unnecessary?”
“Yes.”
She walked into the room.
“Ethan was emotional. He wrote things because he was upset.”
“He wrote to his father.”
“He needed to move on.”
The words landed like a punch.
Ethan looked at her.
“Move on from Daddy?”
Vanessa went quiet.
I saw the hurt on his face.
The confusion.
The betrayal.
And I realized something.
This wasn’t just about lies.
Vanessa had been rewriting reality inside my son’s head.
She had taken every unanswered question and filled it with her own version.
I picked up the letters.
“How many did you keep?”
She looked away.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“How many?”
Silence.
Then Marcus stepped forward.
“Enough.”
I turned.
“This is between me and my wife.”
“Not anymore.”
His voice hardened.
“You assaulted my sister.”
I looked at him.
“She pushed my son into a pool.”
“You hit her.”
“And I regret that.”
The room became silent.
I meant it.
I had lost control.
No matter what Vanessa had done, I should have walked away.
But regret did not erase what I had seen.
Marcus pointed at me.
“You’re going to lose everything.”
Vanessa looked at Ethan.
Then at me.
And the calmness returning to her face scared me more than her anger.
“You really think those letters are proof?”
I frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
She smiled.
“You should ask yourself why your son is so desperate for your attention.”
Ethan looked confused.
“What?”
Vanessa walked closer to the door.
“Because someone has been lying to you.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
She looked directly at me.
“Your father.”
Ethan’s face went pale.
I felt something break inside me.
Before I could respond, Vanessa pulled something from her pocket.
A small envelope.
She placed it on the dresser.
“This is the truth about why your father really stayed away.”
Then she walked out.
I stared at the envelope.
My name was written on the front.
But the handwriting wasn’t Ethan’s.
It was mine.
May you like
And I knew immediately.
I had never written that letter.
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