An envelope was hidden in the back of the drawer. No name on it, just an address. Some PO box in Lubbock, Texas. The envelope was sealed with an Elvis stamp on it. Writing in cursive letters. And, no name from the sender; just a zip code.

He could feel the paper inside of it. Perhaps a letter, he thought. Wanted to open it. Wanted to see what was inside. Took out a pocket knife and ran it across the top of the envelope. Whatever secrets were in there would now be revealed.

On a long yellow sheet from a legal pad, a letter was written. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

Dear Sir, the letter started, I’m writing to you about your son who I’m married to. Sorry we’ve never met, but I’m now taking the time to reach out, she said. It’s important. I think you should know.

He comes home at night drunk, the letter continued. And passes out on the couch. Pete never wakes up before noon. He just lays there snoring until I pull back the shades and let in sunlight. Then he yells, kicks and screams. I throw water on him to get him to calm down. He mumbles about being in a war zone. Firing guns and having guns fire back at him. And then he just stares into space. He doesn’t eat much, asks for a beer from the refrigerator, and the bottle of whisky from the top of the cabinet. Before sundown, I have to go fetch him another bottle and a twelve pack of Old Style, an exclamation point was used at the end of the sentence.

I know you don’t know me. And, I feel terrible about there never being a proper wedding, but I feel this need to reach out and tell you that I can not do this anymore, she wrote. I’m leaving your boy. I’m sorry, but he’s gotten too much for me to deal with. I’m asking you to take him in and give him the love he needs. I can no longer do it. She signed it, All my best, Tracy.

The old man folded it and placed the letter back in the envelope. He then returned it to the back of the drawer, opened a beer, and stared out the window at the sunlight coming through the shades.