Eight Years After My Parents Divorced

I brought down the cardboard boxes from the attic and found 96 letters. Every single one was addressed to me. Every single one was unopened.

I recognized the handwriting on the envelopes. It was my father's.

He'd been gone for eight years. Mom said he didn't want me anymore.

But he'd been writing to me for eight years.

Not a single letter had ever reached my hands.

We were moving because my stepfather, Richard, wanted to convert the attic into a study for his son, Mark. Mark had just been accepted into graduate school, and Richard was beaming, insisting on creating a "study space" for him.

"Hazel, clean out those old things in the attic," Mom called from the kitchen, not even looking up. "Throw out anything useless. Hurry, don't dally."

The attic had accumulated a decade's worth of clutter: old clothes, a broken fan, outdated textbooks. And underneath it all, a heavy brown cardboard box. It was taped shut with several layers of packing tape, pressed down by an old quilt.

I ripped off the tape. The moment it opened, I froze.

Letters.

All letters.

Stacked neatly inside the box, one after another. Brown paper envelopes, each with a stamp. I picked up the topmost one.

Recipient: Hazel Lin.

Sender: John Lin.

My dad.

Postmark date: February 2017.

I flipped through them. March 2017. April. May. All the way to December 2024.

I counted.

96 letters.

One every month.

Not a single one opened.

My hands started to tremble.

Mom had told me that Dad had never contacted me after he left. She said he didn't want me anymore. She said he had started a new life and forgotten all about me.

I had believed her for eight years.

I squatted in the attic, tearing open the first letter. February 3, 2017.

"Hazel:

Dad moved to the East End. Rented a small place. Not big, but I saved a room for you. If you want to come, just come anytime.

Dad misses you.

For Christmas, Dad made you braised fish, your favorite. Waiting for you to come back.

Dad."

I was twelve that year. That Christmas Eve, I had asked Mom, "Will Dad come back for Christmas?" Mom had said, "Don't even think about it. He won't. If he cared about you, he would have contacted you already."

I cried half the night under my covers. I thought he didn't want me anymore.

I opened the second letter. March 2017.

"Hazel:

Are you angry at Dad? Dad knows. Dad didn't say goodbye properly when he left. But Dad didn't not want you. It was your Mom who wouldn't let Dad see you.

Dad misses you.

How's school?"

He didn't not want me.

Mom wouldn't let him see me.

My hands trembled harder.

The third letter. The fourth. The fifth.

Every letter asked if I was okay. Every letter said he missed me. Every letter said, "You can come to Dad's anytime."

I had never received a single one.

Not one.

I knelt on the attic floor, tearing open all 96 letters. From 2017 to 2024. Eight years. From "Hazel, are you angry at Dad?" to "Hazel, Dad doesn't blame you, Dad is waiting for you."

The last letter was from last month.

"Hazel:

This Christmas Eve, Dad still set out two plates for you. Fish, ribs, your favorite sweet and sour pork ribs from when you were little. It's okay if you don't come.

Dad is waiting for you.

Dad is always here."

There were water stains on the paper. I didn't know if they were his tears or mine. I covered my mouth, but a choked sound still escaped through my fingers.

Eight years. He wrote for eight years. He waited for eight years. And I had never gone back.

Because Mom told me...

He didn't want me anymore.

I shoved the letters back into the box, closed the lid, and wiped away my tears. Then I went downstairs.

Mom was watching TV in the living room. "All packed up? Threw out the useless stuff, right? Don't want it taking up space."

I looked at her. She didn't even lift her head.

I said nothing, carrying the box back to my room. I locked the door.

I sat on my bed, rereading the letters, one by one. The events of eight years ago returned, frame by frame.

I was twelve when my parents divorced. To be precise, Mom initiated it. She had met Richard. Richard owned a building materials store, with a car and a house. Dad was a factory maintenance worker, earning about four thousand five hundred a month. Mom said she couldn't live like that anymore.

Dad disagreed. He knelt in the living room, begging Mom. "Lydia, Hazel is still so young..."

Mom didn't look at him. "It's precisely because of Hazel that I've endured this for so many years."

The day Dad left, he held me for a long time. "Hazel," he said, "Dad isn't leaving you. Dad has no choice."

"Dad will come to see you."

"Dad will send you money every month."

"Dad will write to you when he misses you."

I nodded. I believed him.

But after he left, I never received a single letter. Not one phone call. He never came to pick me up from school. Nothing.

I asked Mom, "Why doesn't Dad come to see me?"

The first time I asked, Mom said, "He's busy."

The second time, she said, "He has his own things to do."

The third time, Mom grew impatient. "Stop asking! If he wanted to see you, wouldn't he come? He just doesn't want to!"

The fourth, fifth, sixth times. Mom's answers became more direct.

"He doesn't want you anymore. Stop asking."

"You don't even rank in his thoughts."

"If he cared about you, he would have fought for custody during the divorce."

I stopped asking. I carved "Dad doesn't want me anymore" into my bones.

When I was fourteen, I called Dad for Christmas. His phone was off. Mom said, "See? What did I tell you? He won't even pick up the phone." I later found out it wasn't Dad's phone that was off. Mom had changed his number in my phone. I had been dialing a disconnected number.

When I was sixteen, Mom married Richard. Richard moved into our house with his son, Mark. No, his house. Mom and I moved into his house. Mark was two years younger than me, clean-cut, and he called Mom "Auntie," then later, "Mom."

Mom was incredibly kind to Mark. She cooked for him. Bought him clothes. Helped him with his homework. I said, "Mom, you never helped me with my homework." Mom said, "Mark is more obedient than you. He's easier to teach."

I stopped talking.

My stepfather was indifferent to me. He neither hit nor scolded, but he wasn't affectionate either. At dinner, the chicken leg went to Mark. "Mark, eat more. You need to grow."

I sat across from them. No one put food on my plate. No one asked how school was.

I slowly got used to it. Used to being invisible in this house. Used to Mom's favoritism. Used to life without Dad.

I thought he truly didn't want me anymore.

Now, 96 letters told me otherwise.

He thought of me every month. Every word he wrote was an invitation to return. It was Mom who had hidden his letters for eight years. It was Mom who made me believe I had been abandoned.

I clutched the letters, my nails digging into my palms. Eight years. She had lied to me for eight years.

There were things tucked inside the letters. Starting from the seventh letter, each one contained a slip of paper. Bank transfer receipts.

"Transferor: John Lin. Recipient: Lydia Zhao. Amount: 2000 units."

One every month.

I pulled them out, one by one. August 2017. 2000 units. September 2017. 2000 units. 2018, 2019, 2020. All the way to 2024. Not a single month missed.

I counted. From February 2017 to December 2024, there were 95 transactions. 95 transactions, 2000 units each.

190,000 units.

One hundred ninety thousand.

The letters clearly stated:

"Hazel, Dad sent your mom the money as usual this month. Tell your mom what you need, don't be frugal."

"Hazel, Dad sent an extra five hundred this month. Your birthday is coming up. Ask your mom to buy you a cake."

"Hazel, I heard you're taking your college entrance exams soon. Dad sent an extra thousand. Sign up for a tutoring class."

Each transfer was marked with its purpose. My living expenses. My tuition. My birthday money. Money for my clothes.

Not a single unit ever reached my hands.

One hundred ninety thousand.

When I went to college, my tuition was covered by student loans, and my living expenses by working odd jobs. My freshman year, in winter, I wore my old high school winter coat. My roommate asked, "Didn't your parents buy you a new one?" I said, "My dad doesn't support me, and my mom isn't very well off."

Not very well off?

One hundred ninety thousand.

The four years I was in college, my tuition was six thousand a year. Including living expenses, I spent less than eighty thousand in total. So what about the remaining one hundred ten thousand?

Mark. Mark went to a good university, tuition twelve thousand a year. Mark bought a used car in his sophomore year, eighty thousand. Mark got into graduate school, and my stepfather said, "Studying is a good thing. Don't worry about money."

Where did the money come from? The building materials store hadn't been doing well these past few years; I knew that. My stepfather had complained several times that "business is tough this year." Mom had said, "Be frugal." But Mark's expenses were never cut.

One hundred ninety thousand.

My dad was a factory maintenance worker, earning four thousand five hundred a month. He scrimped and saved, sending two thousand to me every month. Nearly half his salary. All of it went into Mom's pocket. All of it was spent on someone else's son.

I spread the transfer receipts across the bed, covering the entire surface. Black and white. I stared at them for a long time. Then, I pulled out my phone and took pictures of them, one by one.