Chapter 5 - THE SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD ENVELOPE
I pulled the door open six inches, keeping the safety chain engaged. "How did you find my apartment, Megan?"
Megan looked up at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked exhausted, as if she had been crying in her car for an hour. She didn't look angry anymore. She looked terrified.
"Chloe," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the hallway lights. "Please. Unhook the chain. I need to give you something."
I looked at her face, then down at the thick envelope in her hand. The paper was old, yellowed at the edges, and bore the dark blue crest of Hartwell State University across the top corner.
Slowly, I unlatched the chain and pulled the door open.
Megan stepped into my living room. She looked around at my small space—the simple wooden furniture, the framed certificates from my custodial training on the wall, the stacks of economics textbooks neatly organized on the bookshelf.
"You really did it," Megan whispered, staring at my bookshelf. "You actually got the degree."
"Why are you here, Megan?" I asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed.
Megan swallowed hard. She walked over to my dining table and placed the yellowed envelope in the center of the dark wood.
"When you left Sunday dinner three weeks ago," Megan said, her voice trembling, "I picked up the invitation you left face-down on the table."
"I remember," I said. "You read the fine print."
"The fine print listed the Distinguished Staff Alumni award criteria," Megan continued, tears welling up in her eyes. "It said the award was reserved for staff members who had completed a degree program after being previously admitted to the university."
She pointed a shaking finger at the yellow envelope on the table.
"After you blocked my number an hour ago," Megan confessed, "I drove over to Mom and Dad's house. Dad was in his study, drinking scotch and screaming about Dr. Hail. Mom was crying in the kitchen. I went up to the attic... into Dad's old filing cabinet where he keeps his Hartwell memorabilia."
My heart gave a sudden, violent thump inside my chest. "What did you do, Megan?"
"I knew where he kept the old family mail logs from sixteen years ago," Megan whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I found this tucked behind his old college yearbooks."
I walked slowly over to the table.
The envelope was addressed to Ms. Chloe Watson, 1428 Elm Street, Laramie, Ohio. It was postmarked June 14, 2010.
It had been opened sixteen years ago, then resealed with clear cellophane tape across the back flap.
Across the front of the envelope, in my father's sharp, distinctive handwriting, were three words written in red ink: DO NOT DELIVER.
My fingers trembled as I reached out and touched the yellowed paper.
"Open it," Megan whispered.
I broke the clear tape, pulled out the thick folded letter inside, and unfolded it against the wooden table.
It was an official acceptance letter from the Office of Admissions at Hartwell State University for the Fall 2010 semester. Attached to the back was a notification of a partial academic merit scholarship for two thousand dollars a year.
Dear Ms. Watson,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been removed from our waiting list and accepted into the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences...
I stood there staring at the paper.
The world seemed to stop spinning. The hum of the refrigerator, the sound of traffic outside, the ticking of the wall clock—everything vanished into a vast, terrifying silence.
Sixteen years ago, I had sat at my parents' kitchen table in my mustard-yellow diner dress, waiting for the mailman. Every afternoon at four o'clock, Dad walked down the gravel driveway, brought the mail inside, and said: Nothing for you, kiddo. The letter never came.
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They had taken my college fund for Megan's senior year. They had told me I wasn't college material. They had let me work twelve-hour shifts at a greasy diner thinking I wasn't smart enough to get into the state school down the road.
Dad had intercepted the letter, sealed it in tape, wrote DO NOT DELIVER across the front, and buried it in an attic cabinet for sixteen years so I would never ask for my share of the money.
