Your father’s out mowing the grass again. It’s eight o’clock at night and he’s mowing the grass. The noise of the engine builds to a roar as he pushes it past the rear of the house, fades to a whine as he steers it to a dark corner of the yard.

Do you remember when you were three years old and caught pneumonia? You probably don’t. Your father took off work for a week so he could sit by your bedside and rub you with witch hazel and feed you chicken broth. He loves you, he does, he just doesn’t know how to show it anymore. As best as I can explain it, Liz, that’s why he’s out there now mowing the grass, the grass he’s already mowed.

Before going out your father suggested I take a break. Why was I still obsessively writing this letter? Wasn’t I tired? What was the point? I told him I need to finish before you get home. He looked at me oddly, started to say something, but then left. I didn’t ask what he meant to say; I don’t need to know. The writing gives me comfort. Isn’t that enough? This, I tell myself, is at least one thing I can do now to make up for whatever wrongs I’ve done.

Because the question that still haunts me most, daughter, is why? Why did you run? Has your life here been that unbearable? Did that one slap sting that much? Or is it something else, something that troubles you more than I’ll ever imagine? Because I know, you see, how much a daughter can hide from a mother. I’ve heard you crying behind your bedroom door, and I’ve hated myself for not having compassion enough even to knock, telling myself that your problems are your own making, and that the best thing I can do for you is to let you live and learn, that I should respect your privacy like you demand I should…. I’ve listened, and I’ve walked away until I couldn’t hear you crying anymore. That, Liz, is why I keep writing this letter.

Here comes the mower again, back around behind the house. My hand’s tired, my energy is flagging, and I’m not especially looking forward to this next part. But there are things you still don’t know yet, and I promised I would tell everything.