The Homecoming,
The letter arrived three weeks after Monaco's snow melted into rumor. Wedged between bills and a car wash flyer, your handwriting sharp on a worn envelope. I took it to the balcony overlooking the gate, pines whispering to the wind. Sun low, bruising the sky purple and gold.
Hands shaking, I unfolded your pages:
> Father,
If this finds you, the post is more faithful than we were.
I wrote in quiet hours, when pain ebbed and stars felt close.
Do not grieve as one who lost everything. Grieve as one given a second chance to understand.
I saw you in dreams—younger, by the mango tree, teaching Daniel to climb.
I forgive you, not because you asked, but because it lightened my load.
Tell Emmanuel his stories kept me company. Tell Aunty Margarita the recipes are hers.
Tell Daniel the butterfly he chased landed on my windowsill in Monaco.
The angel was gentle. Like the moment before rain.
I am the hush after your prayers, the warmth in your tea.
When the wind rattles the gate, listen—that's me, laughing at your scowl.
Row gently. The stream curves back to us all.
Your daughter, Forever.
I read it thrice. The compound silent—no children, no dogs. Just the lemon tree dropping a fruit with a soft thud.
That night, your notebook arrived from Margot, wrapped in brown paper, smelling of antiseptic and faint jasmine. Your letter to yourself: You have done enough… now rest.
Morning, I planted a new lemon tree beside the old, watered it with your weak, sweet tea. Daniel came, grown, with Amara, three, all curls and fearless questions. "Tell me about the princess with stars in her pockets."
"Once, there was a girl who feared the dark…"
"Did she find her father?"
"Yes," I said. "In the end, she did."
Emmanuel brought photos: you at sixteen by the Peugeot; you and Mother laughing over pineapples. Then a small wooden boat—mango wood, sail a scrap of cloth. Row gently, Papa. The moon is closer than you think.
I laughed. "She got the last word."
"She always did."
Aunty Margarita arrived, tongue sharp. "Paint fades. Roots matter."
She stayed a week, filling the house with thyme and breadfruit. "She left to become someone you wouldn't recognize. And you were learning to see."
"I see now."
"Then live like a man forgiven."
First anniversary, harmattan dusting everything red. We gathered under the mango tree at dusk: Daniel with chocolate cake, Emmanuel with a cane, Margarita with a lily. No speeches—just stories.
Amara tugged my sleeve. "Will the princess come back?"
"She never left."
We released four lanterns. They rose toward the stars.
I sold the Peugeot, built a library in the compound's corner—mango-wood shelves, blue tin roof. Children came after school. Amara stamped books with a potato star.
One day, a girl with your braids asked, "Who was the princess?"
"My daughter," I said. "She crossed a river with stories in her pockets."
Years softened. Daniel's son was born on your anniversary—Lucien, after your light.
Ten years on, I found a white feather on the rail. In the library, children waited.
"Tell us about the girl who lived twice."
"Once," I began, "there was a girl who feared the dark…"
Outside, lemons rustled. The stream curved gently. The moon was close enough to touch.