Chapter 2 - The Fire In The Study
Michael didn't hesitate.
He bolted out of the bedroom.
His footsteps hammered against the wooden stairs.
Emily was right behind him.
The smell of smoke hit his nose before he even reached the bottom step.
It was coming from his father’s old study.
A room Margaret usually kept locked.
Michael threw the door open.
Flames licked the inside of the small stone fireplace.
Margaret was on her knees on the rug.
She was frantically throwing stacks of paper into the fire.
A heavy oak lockbox lay shattered on the floor beside her.
That was the crash they had heard.
She had dropped it in her panic.
"Mom! What are you doing?!"
Michael lunged forward.
He didn't wait for her answer.
He reached into the hearth and pulled out the burning papers.
The flames singed his knuckles.
He didn't care.
He stomped the fire out on the stone hearth.
Margaret scrambled backward.
Her face was completely pale.
"Michael, don't look at those!"
Her voice was shrill.
Desperate.
"They're just old bills! Garbage!"
But Michael was already unfolding one of the half-burnt pages.
His heart stopped.
He recognized the handwriting immediately.
It was his own.
My dearest Emily,
I miss you more than words can say. I haven't received a letter from you in a month, but I know the military mail system can be slow...
The date on the top was from six months ago.
Michael froze.
He looked down at the scattered papers on the floor.
There were dozens of them.
Hundreds.
Every single letter he had sent to Emily during his deployment.
They were all here.
Hidden.
Unopened.
And next to them was another stack.
Letters written in Emily's delicate handwriting.
Letters addressed to him.
Letters that never made it to the post office.
The room was completely silent except for the crackling of the dying fire.
Michael slowly turned his head.
He looked at his mother.
The woman who had raised him.
"You hid them."
His voice was a dangerous, low growl.
Margaret pressed her back against the desk.
"Michael, you don't understand!"
"I understand perfectly."
Emily stood in the doorway, trembling uncontrollably.
She stared at the letters on the floor.
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed against the doorframe, sobbing.
"You told me he stopped writing," Emily choked out.
She looked at Margaret with pure agony.
"You told me he met someone else overseas."
Michael felt the air leave his lungs.
He stared at his wife.
Then he looked back at his mother.
The pieces were finally falling into place.
The fear in Emily's eyes.
The bruises.
The silence.
For fourteen months, Margaret had isolated her.
Tortured her.
Convinced her that her husband had abandoned her.
Michael stood up.
He didn't yell.
He didn't scream.
He just looked at Margaret with absolute disgust.
"Get out of my way."
He gathered every single letter into his arms.
Then he walked over to Emily and gently helped her up.
"We're leaving," he said softly.
May you like
"No! Michael, please!" Margaret begged, reaching for him.
Michael didn't even look back.
