Beginning when I was eight years old, I began receiving anonymous messages in the mail on a weekly basis. There was a stamp on each one of them, and they were all addressed to me. Some of them stated weird things. My parents were uneasy about it and insisted on bringing them with them on their trip.
To begin, I didn’t give it much thought at first. My mother and father told me that they were most likely junk mail or even an example of marketing gone bad. It was too early for me to protest. Even yet, there was a part of me that was aware that it was something unusual.
They never allowed me to read over them. I can still vividly recall the occasion when I attempted to sneak into the kitchen when my father threw one of them into the garbage. However, by the time I arrived, he had already crumpled it already. In the end, I did not make another attempt.
Following some time, the letters came to an end. Perhaps a year, perhaps two years—I am unable to recall the precise time. When I was in middle school, I was already in high school. My childhood was a haze. I failed to remember of them.
Or, at the very least, I buried the recollection in a significant location.
After twenty years had passed. I am now 28 years old and reside in a modest apartment in the city. At the same time as I am attending courses online at night, I am working as a delivery driver during the day. However, it is a source of income, therefore it is not glamourous.
My father lost dead from a stroke, and my mother passed away from cancer six months later. I was left with the family home when both of my parents passed away last year. The thought of selling it was too much for me to bear at the moment, so I began the laborious task of clearing it out.
I was in the attic on a Saturday afternoon, rummaging through boxes of old Christmas decorations and picture albums. I was there throughout the afternoon. I discovered a box that was sealed with black electrical tape and hidden beneath a row of VHS cassettes that were already covered with dust. It was scrawled in sharpie on the top, and it was my name. Simply say my name, “Dylan.”
I paused for a considerable amount of time. I couldn’t help but feel that the package was… weighty. Not just in terms of weight, but also in context. After taking a seat on the ground, I removed the tape from its backing and opened it.
Several dozen envelopes were found inside.
You are all addressing me. 100% written by hand. It is everything open.
The beat of my heart began to quicken.
Some of them had dates. A postmark from June 2005 was found on the first one. When I was eight years old. The most recent one was posted in 2007. It was close to two years that they lasted.
Also, they were not worthless.
“You are braver than you know,” was the first one that was written. Today, you confronted a bully, and you didn’t even understand how courageous that was until you did it. I am really pleased with you.
Another person said, “Do not let the times of silence to frighten you. This is when your magic begins to flourish.
Every single letter was easy to understand. Confidential. The things that they detailed were things that had occurred to me, things that no one ought to have known. For example, there was the occasion when I scraped my knee behind the school and sobbed behind the fence because I didn’t want the other students to think about it. Also, there was the time when I was in the school play and I forgot my lines, and I felt I had wrecked everything.
There were even letters coming in on days when I hadn’t accomplished anything at all. Someone has just remarked, “You are important. “That is sufficient.”
I could feel my hands trembling. Until the sun went down, I sat in the attic with my legs crossed and finished reading each of them one by one.
They had been despatched by who? Why did my parents choose to conceal them from me?
I was unable to go to sleep that night. The letters were dispersed throughout the floor of my flat on all sides. My eyes were fixed on them as if they were parts of a jigsaw that I had been forbidden to solve when I was a child.
I made a phone call to my Aunt Rosie, who is my mother’s younger sister, the next morning. My sole remaining contact with a member of my family was with her.
I addressed her as “Rosie.” If you recall, I used to receive letters when I was a youngster. Do you remember those letters? The ones that Mom and Dad tend to take away from you?
It was a pause. “Oh, my sweet.” Have you located them?
I felt a flutter in my chest. “So you were aware of that?”
In a low voice, she said, “I did.” I was informed about them by your mother. This caused her concern.
How could she possibly be concerned? They have a stunning looks.
It is true. On the other hand, your parents were terrified back then. They believed that someone was keeping an eye on you. The act of sending such intimate messages to a youngster was enough to make them feel frightened. They made one attempt to contact the authorities, but they were unable to take any action since they were under danger.
I sat down on my sofa and grabbed the phone at the same time. “Have they ever been able to determine who it was?”
Once again, Rosie pondered. It is not. Then then, your mother had a hunch. Exactly who she was never disclosed to me. I have just said, “If it is who I believe it to be, it is someone who is attempting to make up for something.”
Have you made up for something?
That went through my head for many days.
I returned to the home and began searching through old papers, photographs, and even yearbooks from the past. None of it.
Up until the point when I discovered a photograph hidden deep inside an old drawer. The fading appearance was most likely from the 1980s. Standing next to my mother was a man whose identity I did not recognize. His arm was over her shoulder, and he had a kind grin on his face. He also had a partial beard.
“Me and Ben. 1984,” written in Mom’s handwriting on the reverse of the card.
You, Ben?
Before this, I had never heard of a Ben.
I made another call to Rosie.
‘Rosie…’ To whom is Ben?
There is no sound. Then there was a sigh.
He was… your mother’s first love, she claimed. “He was…” They dated for a number of years prior to her meeting your father. It was his desire to wed her. The
What just took place?
“Your grandparents did not give their blessing. Different sets of experiences. To make a long tale short, they resolved the issue. However, Ben remained in the city for a considerable amount of time. What a gentleman he was. Considerate. Contemplative”
“Has he ever tied and tied the knot?”
It is not. Nothing that I am aware of.”
Something occurred to me at that moment. What was the tenor of the letters? They talked to me in a manner that was not that of a stranger but rather that of someone who cared passionately about me.
To what extent do you believe that he may be the person who penned the letters? I inquired about it.
There is again another halt. “It is not impossible.”
In light of that, I was at a loss for what to do.
I pondered Ben for a few of short weeks. I don’t see why he would write to me if he had loved my mother so much. In what way was he attempting to make amends?
Then, on a particular morning, while I was standing outside the corner store to get some coffee, I saw an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper. My attention was drawn to him for some reason.
No matter what it was—perhaps his eyes or the way he sat—I couldn’t help but notice that he had a familiar appearance. Perhaps it was only that I wanted to get comfortable with him.
I had to walk by him twice before I finally worked up the nerve to say anything.
I said, “Please excuse me.” “Is that you, Ben?”
Slowly, he peered above him. My face was scrutinized by his gaze.
“I used to be,” he remarked with a half smile on his face.
It became dry in my throat.
“I believe that… It’s possible that you’ve written me letters. When I was a young teen. Hello, my name is Dylan.
He looked at me for a considerable amount of time. After that, he folded his newspaper and placed it on the table.
“Sit,” he murmured in a soft voice.
Therefore, I sat down.
When he saw you, he exclaimed, “I never thought I’d see you.” “This is not the case.”
“Did you actually write them?”
Yes, I did.
“Why is that?”
After he let out a sigh, he turned his gaze toward the street.
“Because I had a deep affection for them. And when she departed, there was a part of me that wished that maybe I might still do something worthwhile. That I was aware of you. When I was coming home from school, I would stop at the park to catch up with you. You were never followed by me. Never made a sound. I was only able to observe from the sidelines.”
“But how were you able to become aware of what was going on in my life? I was impressed by how descriptive the letters were.
Slightly, he grinned at me. It was my job to work at your school, Dylan. During that time, I worked as the janitor. My distance was maintained. I did, however, pay attention.
Stumped, I gazed at him in silence.
You were aware that my parents would not approve of it.
It was me. I never signed them for of this reason. All I wanted to do was let you know that someone spotted you. That you were not a complete stranger.”
The question is, “But why not just leave?”
“Because I was unable to,” he explained. “I have never had a family of my own,” she said. I was reminded of all that I had lost because of you. You were like a second opportunity that I wasn’t actually given before.
My chest became very taut.
The Letters I Was Never Meant To Read
