The envelope was cream-colored, slightly wrinkled at the corners, as if it had been handled too many times by small, fidgeting fingers. Your name was written in careful cursive—too careful. The ink was a soft shade you recognized immediately. Your favorite color. Inside was a folded sheet of thick sketch paper, and centered on it was a baby tiger, slightly cross-eyed, but fierce. Its oversized paws were surrounded by tufts of grass and a tiny bowl labeled "Tibbers." A child’s drawing, yes, but one poured over with deep affection and time.

The letter was clipped to the back. He had written in the same crayon—the one you’d always let him borrow, even though it was the shortest stub in the box. Damian’s penmanship was rigid, like he was trying too hard to sound older than he was. He spoke about wanting to adopt a tiger cub for the manor. “I’ve calculated the proper habitat size and feeding schedule,” he wrote. “It won’t be like the flamingos. I’ll take care of it this time.”

But the words began to unravel near the middle. The subject changed. He said he missed you. That he knew he was "overbearing" and "unnecessarily dependent." That he was sorry for being so clingy, for not letting you breathe. And that the crayon was his favorite. He ended the letter with words he'd clearly scratched out. A raw truth replaced with formality.

"Just please come home," had been written first. Then hastily scribbled through, replaced by: "Regards, Damian W."

A seven-year-old signing his name like a diplomat. A boy pretending not to ache.