All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

What are these?” I lowered myself to the floor, kneeling between him and the table where the stack of letters had been placed.

“They’re from my brother.” The reading light behind Silas shone through the page in his hand, illuminating the slanted, narrow handwriting as well as the signature on the bottom.

Carlos.

“From when he was in prison?” I asked, wondering if I needed to tiptoe around the subject or if it was better to be direct. I didn’t know a ton about Carlos, but what I did know was complicated. Even if Silas had wanted to make it an open-and-shut case, family matters rarely operated that way. No matter how I’d tried to categorize my parents, stuff them into folders with labels of my choosing, they never quite fit. The same way I hadn’t quite fit in theirs, either.

“Yes.” He rubbed at his head. “There are forty-two in total. My mom kept them all, stored them for me. I wasn’t sure if or when I would read them, but . . . here.” Gently, he lifted two letters from the front of the box and handed them to me. “Start with the one on the top.”

“Oh, Silas. Are you sure you want me to—”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I stared down at the letters, the one on top addressed to Daniel and Judy Whittaker. “This is addressed to your parents.”

He offered a single nod, as if that was all he could afford by way of explanation. With extra care, I slid the thin piece of paper out of the envelope and read the words Carlos Rodriguez had penned in black ink. Within the first line, his purpose was clear. This was a letter of deep regret, an apology in hopes of making amends.

But it was also much, much more than that. A story of a man, patched together through the insights and context he provided, telling of an older teen boy who’d become addicted to the drug he’d helped his mother and her merry-go-round of boyfriends sell. A testimony of trial and pain. Hardship and bitterness. And in many ways, I supposed this apology was also a confession, because where Silas had been offered a second chance at a happy childhood with a functional family who knew how to love and protect him, Carlos had spent his adolescence trying to find a path of his own. A home of his own.

With shaky fingers, I traded out the first letter for the second, this one causing my eyes to mist and burn the instant I read the first word. Brother. It was much shorter than the one he’d written to the Whittakers, only a few lines, yet somehow the words clutched my heart and refused to let go.

Brother,

This is my last letter to you from the inside. Next week I’ll be a free man. But I know true freedom isn’t the sun on my face or money in my pocket. That only comes from God and His forgiveness of my sins.

I’ve hurt many people. But I’ve hurt you most. I’ve sat with my regrets and bad desisons decisions for three years now. I know there is nothing I can do to desearve deserve your forgiveness. But I hope you will give it anyway.

You have always been the better man and the better brother.

I’m sorry.

Carlos

I finished reading those last few lines while holding my breath. I lowered the letter to my lap and peered into the face of a man I’d grown to care for so deeply. “Wow, Silas. This is . . .” But I couldn’t really define what it was, nor was it my place to define it. Carlos was Silas’s brother; this was his story to own and to share. “What are you thinking?”

Silas exhaled slowly. “I think it’s been a really long day.”

“It has indeed.”

He stared down at my hand. “Would you mind if we put the no-touching rule on pause for tonight?”

Without a second’s hesitation, I answered by reaching for his hand. He slipped his fingers through mine, saying nothing more for several heartbeats.

“Are you going to read them all?”

He nodded. “Yes, and I think I might call the pastor who’s been mentoring him, too.” He glanced up at me. “What do you think?”

That he would even ask my opinion on such a deeply personal matter made me weepy. “I think that sounds like a great next step.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t always see straight when it comes to Carlos.”

“I know,” I said, squeezing his hand. “But it sounds like he’s processed through a lot and wants lasting change.”

Silas planted his elbows on his knees and lowered his head, but he still kept a firm grip on my hand. “How can I direct a ministry based on the notion that with enough guidance and grace the trajectory of any life can change . . . and yet struggle to believe it could be true for my own brother?”

“But you do believe it, Silas.” I squeezed his palm. “I know you do, because you believed it was true for me.”

“You were different.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’m really not. For many years I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t lost. That I’d just found my own way to live—a prettier, happier, more sparkly way.” I focused on the definition of his jawbone, then sighed. “But really, my sin wasn’t any prettier than a junkie looking for his next hit. I only learned how to package it better.” I met his eyes. “I was just as lost as your brother, and you didn’t turn me away. Just like Carlos, I needed people who were willing to speak truth into my life, willing to show up at my door and drag me back to where I belonged.” I stared down at our joined hands, grateful in a way I’d never been. “Before all this, before I came to Fir Crest, I believed my online followers were synonymous with real-life friends. That might sound crazy to you, but it had been so long since . . . ” I