My Better Half (Sequel to My Cup of Tea)

The Letters

Dearest Simon,

It feels strange. Writing you this letter. It's even stranger to think that you're a grown man now with friends and school and a life.

The first and only time I saw you, you were so young. You had just been born. I thought that you might have cried––most babies do, I was told––but you didn't. You grabbed onto your mother's finger and looked up at her with your big blue eyes. She wasn't long for this world when you were born. I knew that she tried to hold on because it was in her nature to fight, but she couldn't. You only cried when she died. At least you got to be in her arms––to feel her loving touch when she placed a kissed upon your head and said, "My rosebud boy." That's what she would have called you, I think.

My Rosebud boy.

I don't quite know why I'm writing this letter. I think, now that you're eighteen, that I'd like to be able to meet you. I understand that you don't know who I am, but I just wanted to do something. When your mother died, something died within me, too. She was my best friend, you know. The only one who would listen to my rants and my ideas about the world and how to right all of the wrongs.

I caused a lot of those wrongs, I think. I caused a lot of wrongs with you. I was so young then. So naive. I didn't know how to handle her death. I suppose I could have tried to help you––to keep you close. But, whenever I looked into your eyes, I saw her's and something broke inside of me. It wasn't your fault––not really. I was broken. Her death...it broke me in ways that I cannot even begin to describe to you.

I live in a red cottage in Burley. It's away from the rest of the world. Your mother loved it here. She loved seeing the sky stretch out for miles on end. She loved the breeze and the open land. She kept chickens in my backyard. I didn't mind. They seemed to make her happy.

Nothing made her as happy as you did.

If you want to visit, my address is on the letter. I'm home all the time these days because going out seems like such a burden. A luxury I shouldn't be allowed to have. I would like to meet you, if you ever feel so inclined. I'd like to tell you about your mother and her passion for life. Her passion for you.

With all my love,

D.M.

Dearest Simon,

It was too hot today. I hated it, but your mother...well. She would have gone out in a sundress and strappy sandals and just bathed in it. It would have kissed her and turned her skin golden brown and turned her hair even more blonde.

I wonder if you look like her. I wonder if...

She was beautiful. I mean, she was physically beautiful, but she also had a beautiful soul. She was beautiful through and through. She was the most powerful person I'd ever met. Strong-willed and stubborn when she wanted something enough. She was loyal to a fault––too loyal to me even though I didn't deserve her. I never deserved her. She deserved the whole world, you know. You did, too.

I'm sorry for what happened to you. I'm sorry that you've spent your life in care homes and bounding from one place to the next. I'm sorry that you never got to know you mother like I did.

I think that you're probably like her. How could you not be? I'm sure that you're just as loyal, just as loving, just as good. She was always so good. Not just good to me, either. She was good to everyone. Good to everything.

One of her chickens hurt its wing once. She was pregnant with you––far too pregnant to be fussing around with the damn chickens––but she did it anyway. She got down on her knees and tried to mend its wing. I told her that it didn't matter if its wing was hurt because it wasn't like chickens flew, but she told me that it was in pain. I don't know how she knew it.

Sometimes, I think that it was why she stuck with me. I was a right prick sometimes. I would shut myself off from the world and focus on my studies and my writing. But your mother stuck with me. Mended me. I was so broken when I found her and she tried to fix me.

I'm still at the red cottage in Burley. I still feed the chickens, even though I hate the damned things. I still want to meet you, if you'd like. I have so much that I'd like to tell you.

With all my love,

D.M.

Dearest Simon,

It hurts me to write to you.

It's not your fault. I don't want you thinking that.

It's just that writing to you feels like I'm writing to your mother somehow. And it...well, it breaks my heart. Maybe I'm holding on. Maybe I'm hoping that writing these letters, even if you never read them, will help me heal.

I wish you could have met her. I wish you could have felt how much love she held for you. Do you feel it, Simon? Do you feel it pooling in your belly like an endless well?

I suppose you don't. I wonder if, after everything, you know what it feels like to be loved. I suppose that your unusual childhood might have complicated things for you in that regard, but I hope that you're capable of love. Of being loved. It's hard to let yourself be loved. It's hard to...

These are things I'd rather tell you in person. I'm still at the red cottage in Burley. It needs a new coat of paint, but I can't bring myself to paint it. Your mother painted it last time, and I think that painting over her work would be like painting her away.

I want to meet you. I want to see if you look like her. If you're like her in spirit.

With all my love,

D.M.