I spent a lot of time alone this winter. Eric (no, we are not getting married, so please don’t ask) was still in Dubai, so I was by myself. I know, I lived in New York by myself but this felt different. Like being in a monastery. I went days—days, Ruth!—without talking to anyone. The news was horrible most of the time. (We may have different definitions of horrible and different sources for our news but I think we’d both agree that things are not good.) Sometimes I’d call Dad, and he’d tell me about whatever new indignity he was suffering in his department, thanks to budget cuts and overcrowding. Do you know he’s teaching five classes this semester? Three of them are intro, with a writing requirement, so all he does is grade papers. I remember when he had three classes in the spring—he grew asparagus and zinnias and built bookshelves for all our neighbors, because he was worried people weren’t reading books anymore (like the lack of a place to put them was the cause). Anyway, I think he’s lonely, overworked. Maybe you and Darryl could take him supper one night? One of those casseroles you specialize in? Or maybe you already do that. He hasn’t mentioned it, though.

But I wanted to talk about us, that’s why I’m writing. When you got married, Ruth, it was like a gut punch to me. Not because I’m not married, but because you were so young. There was so much out there—going to college, living on your own, dating—that you hadn’t experienced, that I know Mom would have wanted for you. That I wanted for you. I mean, your first apartment! Being completely alone and free to do whatever you want—to eat ice cream sandwiches for dinner, lie on the floor and think, sleep as late as you want or not at all. I know I moved away, didn’t come home enough. I know I didn’t call enough. I know I wasn’t the sister Mom wanted me to be to you, and I’m sorry.

So I’m asking now: what was it like, living at home with just Dad? Was it okay? It’s seemed for a while now like you’re mad at both of us, but Dad really did his best. I could have done better. You don’t have to let me off the hook (another cliché). Reel me in. Rake me over the coals. Let me have it.

Love,

Marianne