I didn’t want people to know me.
That was where danger lay.
Every day, I hated trudging to work and enduring yet more snide comments and rolled eyes at my reserved silence.
I missed the fields.
I missed the smell of manure and sunshine and tractor diesel.
Now, the dirt on my hands was from concrete and lime, not earth and grass. The dust in my lungs was from cutting bricks and shovelling gravel, not from fluffing hay and hauling bales.
Sometimes, even though the guys hated me, they’d offer me the odd after-work gig. The rules were: always do it late at night and always be unseen by anyone.
I didn’t understand the secrecy for tasks like removing old roof sheets or cracking apart ancient walls, but I followed their stupid rules and cleared away debris. No one else seemed to want to do it, and the money was double that of day labouring.
No matter that I was grateful I had a job, some mornings, when I left for work and Della left for school, I’d struggle to continue walking to the site. Ice would crack beneath my boots and breath would curl from my lips, and I’d physically stop, look at the snow-capped trees in the distance, and have to lock my knees to stop from bolting toward them.
Days were long and hard and taxed me of everything I had.
But the nights—when I wasn’t working on secret demolition—made up for the struggle.
The emptiness inside from living in a concrete jungle amongst wretches and sinners faded whenever I was near her. Her comforting voice, familiar kindness, and almost intuitive knowing when I just needed to sit quiet and have her tell me stories for a change, repaired the tears inside me.
Watching her animate tales of school and teachers allowed me to forget about everything but her. It reminded me why I’d cursed her for overstepping a boundary. And why I could never lose her. No way could I ever survive without her, and that terrified me because with every day, the remainder of her childhood slipped off like a cocoon, leaving behind new wings dying to fly.
She was evolving, and I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch her morph into something I could never keep.
For two years, I held that job and paid for Della’s every need. For every whisper from the wind to leave, I was held in place by the knowledge I needed to stay for her. For every tug to run, I focused on the person Della was becoming, and it was completely worth it.
A month or so after we’d moved into our apartment and I’d decorated the bedroom with purple curtains and a foam mattress covered in lilac bedding for Della—while I slept on the pop-out couch in the living room—we received our first letter.
Because we’d used John Wilson as a landlord reference, he knew where we were and wrote to us.
The letter was short and to the point, making sure we were safe and doing well and that if we ever needed anything, their door was always open. I tucked his phone number and address safely in my memory just in case.
I missed them, but I didn’t know how to say such things or to convey how grateful I was for their hand in our lives—I’d fail in person, and I’d definitely fail in writing.
So Della was the one who got in touch and thanked them.
She let them know I’d found her and apologised for any embarrassment she might’ve caused. I approved the letter she sent, making sure it held the correct tone and gave no room for imagination that we might be doing anything wrong.
But she didn’t let me read the note she sent to Cassie.
She scribbled something, folded it tight, and placed it in the envelope, licking it before I had a chance to spy.
I wanted to know what she said, but at the same time, I respected their privacy and relationship. She had every reason to stay in touch while I had a lot to stay away.
I didn’t send any letters. I didn’t find her online. I didn’t get in touch in anyway.
What was the point?
Cassie and I were friends out of convenience. She had used me just as much as I had used her, and she no longer needed me to cause any more stress than I already had.
But with one letter came more, and Della and Cassie stayed in touch with the occasional note from Liam. Eventually, their snail mail became emails and quickly evolved to Facebook messages.
Occasionally, once Della had dragged herself to sleep and left the cheap phone I’d bought her on the coffee table, I’d swipe on the screen and scroll through pictures of Cassie at horse shows or sunsets over the fields sent by Liam.
Those moments hurt my heart for the simplicity of the world we’d all shared.