dangerous. The letter was a kind of voucher, a pass that would admit
him back into the family.
I couldn’t get myself to open the attachment; some instinct had
seized my fingers. I remembered Tyler as he’d been when I was young,
the quiet older brother reading his books while I lay under his desk,
staring at his socks and breathing in his music. I wasn’t sure I could
bear it, to hear those words in his voice.
I clicked the mouse, the attachment opened. I was so far removed
from myself that I read the entire letter without understanding it: Our
parents are held down by chains of abuse, manipulation, and
control....They see change as dangerous and will exile anyone who
asks for it. This is a perverted idea of family loyalty....They claim
faith, but this is not what the gospel teaches. Keep safe. We love you.
From Tyler’s wife, Stefanie, I would learn the story of this letter, how
in the days after my father had threatened disownment, Tyler had gone
to bed every night saying aloud to himself, over and over, “What am I
supposed to do? She’s my sister.”
When I heard this story, I made the only good decision I had made
for months: I enrolled in the university counseling service. I was
assigned to a sprightly middle-aged woman with tight curls and sharp
eyes, who rarely spoke in our sessions, preferring to let me talk it out,
which I did, week after week, month after month. The counseling did
nothing at first—I can’t think of a single session I would describe as
“helpful”—but their collective power over time was undeniable. I didn’t
understand it then, and I don’t understand it now, but there was
something nourishing in setting aside that time each week, in the act of
admitting that I needed something I could not provide for myself.
Tyler did send the letter to my parents, and once committed he
never wavered. That winter I spent many hours on the phone with him
and Stefanie, who became a sister to me. They were available whenever
I needed to talk, and back then I needed to talk quite a lot.
Tyler paid a price for that letter, though the price is hard to define.
He was not disowned, or at least his disownment was not permanent.
Eventually he worked out a truce with my father, but their relationship
may never be the same.
I’ve apologized to Tyler more times than I can count for what I’ve
cost him, but the words are awkwardly placed and I stumble over