Dear, Hamilton

Burn

When I return back to the house, my mind still jumbled and hair disheveled, all is dark and quiet. I can only assume Hamilton put the children to bed.

Did they hear us in his office?

I hope not. I don't want to ruin their perfect image of their father. Despite how angry I am towards him, I wouldn't wish him to be hated by his children. He's always wanted a family to be a part of since he's never had one, himself.

I vow to myself right then that I will make a show of getting along with Hamilton for the children's sake. For all they will know, they have two parents who love each other unconditionally.

As I delicately close the front door behind me, I notice the necklace is no longer on the floor where I'd thrown it in my grief.

I make sure my steps are silent as I cross into the living room, determined to sleep on the couch. I've taken two steps into the living room when I stop in my tracks, my breath hitching in my throat.

Hamilton is already laid out on the couch, his breathing deep and even with sleep. But even asleep, his brow is furrowed and his mouth is pressed into a tight, thin line.

I quickly backtrack and hurry upstairs to where I believe our bedroom is located. There's only one door left open, so I go to it first. I check the closet and spot women's dresses my size and men's shirts hung up on a rack, ensuring this is our shared bedroom.

I'm changing into my night clothes when I spot the large box on my dresser. I draw near it in curiosity and open it a crack. I peek inside to find it crammed full of letters. Curiosity burning brighter in my chest, I lift up the box and sit down on the floor. I gently set it down in front of me on the wood floor and take off the lid. I pick up the first letter, which is written by Hamilton and addressed to me.

You gain by every comparison I make and the more I contrast you with others the more amiable you appear. But why do you not write to me oftener? It is again an age since I have heard from you. I write you at least three letters for your one, though I am immersed in public business and you-

My eyes prick with tears, and I throw the letter away from me, unable to read any more of his lying, traitorous words. The paper scratches lightly against the floor as it skitters a few feet away from me.

My eyes land on the next letter, and I can't help but catch a few sentences;

With no object of sufficient importance to occupy my attention here I am left to feel all the weight of our separation. I pass a great part of my time in company but my dissipations are a very imperfect suspension of my uneasiness. I was cherishing the melancholy pleasure of thinking of the sweets I had left behind and was so long to be deprived of, when a servant from Head Quarters presented me with your letters. I feasted for some time on the sweet effusions of tenderness they contained, and my heart returned every sensation of yours. Alas my Betsey you have divested it of every other pretender and placed your image there as the sole proprietor—

Again, I have to look away from the letter, and I fling this letter away from me, too. I stare at the box crammed full of love letters from Alexander with growing anger.

How dare he write me these letters full of lies?

Decidedly, I pick up the box of letters and march over to the roaring fireplace, burning anger in my heart as I dump the letters into the eager flames.

I watch with satisfaction as the fire licks over the edges of the letters, the ink and paper quickly melting away, his endearing words becoming nothing but smoke and ash, forever lost to the world.