Chapter 4
For a moment, I couldn't move.
The thought of Angela's letters disappearing into a garbage truck made my chest ache.
Those weren't ordinary pieces of paper.
They were the last words my wife had written for our son.
Words she'd struggled to write while fighting for her life.
Words she hoped would comfort Malik long after she was gone.
And Denise had thrown them away.
I looked at my son.
He was still crying against my chest.
"Malik, listen to me."
He raised his head.
"I'm going to do everything I can to find them."
He shook his head.
"It's too late."
"Maybe not."
I turned toward my mother.
"Mom, call the sanitation company."
She immediately reached for her phone.
Then I looked at Denise.
"You're going to tell me exactly when you threw them away."
She folded her arms.
"Marcus, this is ridiculous."
I felt my anger rise.
Then I looked at Malik.
I forced myself to stay calm.
"No. What's ridiculous is that I have to search garbage trucks for my son's memories because you couldn't tolerate his love for his mother."
Denise's face hardened.
"You've always put Angela first."
I stared at her.
"She's dead, Denise."
"Exactly!"
"And somehow you're still competing with her."
She looked as though I'd slapped her.
I didn't wait for an answer.
I turned back toward Malik.
"Go sit with Grandma."
He nodded.
I picked up my phone and called the waste collection office.
It was after business hours.
But I reached an emergency operations line.
I explained that irreplaceable personal documents had been accidentally discarded.
The dispatcher couldn't promise anything.
She asked for our address and collection time.
Then she explained that the truck's contents might already have been transferred to a processing facility.
My heart sank.
But she agreed to note the request and contact the appropriate supervisor.
I thanked her.
Then I called my best friend, Andre.
He managed logistics for several commercial facilities and knew people across the city.
When I explained what happened, he went silent.
Then he said, "Marcus, I'm coming over."
"You don't have to."
"I'm already getting my keys."
I ended the call.
My mother was sitting beside Malik.
She was gently rubbing his back.
Jordan and Brianna had moved to the living room.
Denise stood near the kitchen counter, glaring at everyone.
I looked at her.
"Pack a bag."
She stared.
"What?"
"You're staying somewhere else tonight."
Her mouth fell open.
"You can't throw me out of my own home."
"I'm asking you to leave while we figure out what happens next."
"Marcus, we're married!"
"I know."
"Then act like it!"
I looked toward Malik.
He was watching us with frightened eyes.
I lowered my voice.
"We'll discuss our marriage privately. But my son needs to feel safe tonight."
Denise shook her head.
"You're choosing him over me."
I stared at her.
"He's my child."
She laughed bitterly.
"So that's your answer."
"Yes."
For the first time, I didn't feel guilty saying it.
Denise stormed upstairs.
A moment later, I heard drawers slamming.
I looked at Jordan and Brianna.
They were sitting side by side on the sofa.
Jordan stared at the floor.
Brianna was crying.
I walked over.
"Hey."
They looked up.
"Neither of you is responsible for what your mother did."
Jordan swallowed.
"Are we leaving too?"
I hesitated.
"I want you both safe and cared for. Your mother and I will work out the arrangements with the right people."
Brianna wiped her eyes.
"Can we still talk to Malik?"
I looked toward the dining room.
"That's something Malik gets to decide."
She nodded.
Then whispered, "I tried to stop Mom."
My heart tightened.
"What do you mean?"
Brianna looked toward the staircase.
"Last week. When she took the letters."
I sat beside her.
"Tell me."
Her voice shook.
"I saw her opening the wooden box."
I listened carefully.
"She was reading the envelopes. She got really angry."
"Why?"
"Because one had your name on it."
I froze.
"My name?"
Brianna nodded.
"Mom said Angela had no right to keep talking to you."
My stomach turned.
"Then what happened?"
"She started tearing up some papers."
Malik had come into the living room.
He stood behind me.
Brianna looked at him.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't speak.
She began crying harder.
"I told her to stop."
I touched her shoulder.
"You did the right thing."
She shook her head.
"She told me to mind my business."
I looked toward Malik.
He was staring at Brianna.
Then he whispered, "Did you see where she put them?"
Brianna nodded.
"In the black trash bag."
His face crumpled.
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder.
"We're still going to try."
An hour later, Andre arrived.
He hugged Malik first.
Then he pulled me aside.
"I spoke with someone at the sanitation depot."
My heart jumped.
"And?"
"The truck from your neighborhood hasn't been unloaded yet."
I nearly collapsed with relief.
"Are you serious?"
He nodded.
"But there's no guarantee the bag will be identifiable or safe to recover."
"I understand."
He looked at me.
"They said we can make a formal request. Their staff will decide whether anything can be searched."
I grabbed my jacket.
"Then let's go."
Before leaving, I turned toward Malik.
"Stay with Grandma."
He shook his head.
"Dad, please."
I looked into his eyes.
He was trembling.
But his expression was determined.
"Those are Mom's letters."
I took a breath.
Then nodded.
"All right. You can come with us."
We drove across town.
The whole way, Malik stared out the window.
He barely spoke.
When we reached the facility, a supervisor met us.
He explained the limitations and safety rules.
We weren't allowed near operating machinery.
We couldn't climb into trucks or handle hazardous waste.
But his team agreed to check the identifiable bags from the relevant collection route if it was safe and feasible.
We waited in a small office.
One hour passed.
Then another.
Malik rested his head against my shoulder.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, son?"
"What if we never find them?"
I swallowed.
"Then we'll find other ways to remember your mom."
He shook his head.
"But those were her words."
I closed my eyes.
"I know."
Then the office door opened.
The supervisor stepped inside.
He was holding a clear plastic evidence-style bag.
Inside was a small wooden box.
Broken.
Dirty.
But recognizable.
Malik jumped to his feet.
"That's it!"
My heart pounded.
The supervisor placed it on the table.
"We found this in a bag matching the information you provided."
I opened the plastic carefully.
The wooden box was cracked.
Several envelopes were damp.
Some were torn.
But there were letters inside.
Malik began crying.
I counted them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Then I stopped.
May you like
There should have been twelve.
Only seven remained.
