The Letter Before University

The night before she left for university, Itzel could not sleep. Her bags stood by the door, and her train ticket was on the kitchen table. Downstairs, her father was repairing a lamp that did not need fixing.

He had been quiet all week. He had driven her to buy a winter coat and carried her heavy boxes. He had even checked the tires on the car twice. But he had not said a word about her leaving. Itzel had not known how to start the conversation either.

She went down in her socks and stood in the doorway. "Dad," she began. He looked up, his glasses low on his nose, and waited. "Dad, I…" Nothing else came. "Never mind. Good night."

"Good night," he said, and went back to his screwdriver.

Back in her room, Itzel felt ashamed. She had been brave enough to apply to a school five hours away. She was not brave enough to say thank you. So she took a sheet of paper from her notebook and began to write. She told him that she remembered the Sundays he taught her to ride a bike. She knew he had worked extra shifts for her tuition. She was afraid, but also excited, and she would call every week.

She folded the letter into a small square. At dawn, while her father showered, she slipped it under the lid of his old green toolbox. That was where he kept the things he never lost.

At the station, he hugged her stiffly, as he always did, and handed her a bag of oranges. "Eat these on the train," he said. That was all.

For three weeks, Itzel heard nothing. She called twice, and he answered in short sentences about the weather and the car. She decided that he had never opened the toolbox. Or perhaps he had read the letter and wished she had not written it.

Then, on a Tuesday evening, her phone rang. The screen said Dad. In eighteen years, he had never called her first.

"Hello?" she said carefully.

There was a long pause, and she could hear him breathing. "I found it," he said.