No one did.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Margaret changed her emergency contact to a woman named Denise from the literacy center. She learned how to swim properly at a community pool, slow and deliberate laps under a lifeguard’s watchful eye.
Sometimes, late at night, the memory crept back—the cold, the pressure, the sound of laughter warped by water. But it no longer paralyzed her.
It clarified.
A year later, Margaret received a letter. Not an email. Not a voicemail. A physical envelope, forwarded from her old address.
Richard’s handwriting.
He wrote about Evan transferring to a state school. About loans. About “humbling experiences.” He wrote about stress, about family, about how things had “gotten out of hand.”
The letter ended with a question.
Can we talk?
Margaret set it down and looked out at the ocean. The waves were steady, predictable. She liked that.
She didn’t hate them. That surprised her. What she felt was distance—measured, intentional. Distance that kept her breathing easy.
