The Last Letter

Chapter I It’s just 10am and I’m already exhausted and hungry. It’s been two hours since I started cleaning my house and now, I’m about to pass out. Today is a bright, hot and humid Sunday and I’m not bombarded with schoolworks so I decided to try to clean this house myself because I’m ashamed of my grandma for always cleaning my living space. I sighed after gulping two glasses of water and I can still feel my heart beating so fast. “Why do we have a big house when mom doesn’t even live here?” I whispered to myself. I live alone in a two-storey house excluding the basement, with four bedrooms, three comfort rooms, a big kitchen and an even bigger living room. We also have an unfilled pool, garage for two cars and a wide wooden deck which is probably my favorite spot in this house even though I don’t visit it often. I only occupy one huge room so the other three rooms are probably filled with dust and mold. I’m so stupid for expecting myself that I can clean all of these. I am Abigail Montilla, 18 years old, a first year culinary student. I have two dogs named Loki, a rescued dog so I don’t really know his age and breed, and Harley, a three-year-old black labrador. They are a bit intimidating on the outside but trust me, they are the sweetest living creatures I have ever known. I can say they are the ones keeping me and this house safe. I am an only child, well technically, I have two more significantly younger siblings but I only saw them when they were still babies and we have different fathers. So I am my father’s only child… I guess? My dad passed away 13 years ago from a mysterious car accident while my mom remarried after 5 years and now lives overseas. She only visits me here once a year, mostly during the Christmas season. My mom and dad’s relationship wasn’t the best but I could tell they love each other, at least that’s what I saw when I’m growing up. They were pretty young back then when my mom gave birth to me and my mom actually told me that I was a product of premarital s*x. But they got married almost immediately after mom got pregnant as far as I remember my mom told me. I wasn’t against my mom remarrying, in fact, I pushed and supported her. She’s still young, 42 years old, so I don’t want her to waste her good years taking care of me. My mom’s husband now, my stepfather, is the good-est man I know, of course after my dad. I trust him and I can see my mom happy by his side. I lived in his house with my mom for about 5 years. Only 5 years because I became bitter over time because of their sweetness, and partly because I’m just not comfortable. My dad’s death brought a toll on her physically, emotionally and mentally, she even underwent a psychological treatment in order to smile again. As much as my mom wanted to be with me, I gave her up and pushed her to be with someone else who will make her happy for the rest of her life. I grew up independently. When I was 15 until now, they let me live alone with my grandma’s supervision, supported me financially, and occasionally talked to me through video chats to make sure I’m still sane. I live alone in this big old house which is something I don’t understand. One day, I asked my mom why she wouldn’t sell this house and just get me a small apartment since I will just live alone. She only told me that this house is very important to my father and he was the one who built this house. I just shrugged from her answer but it still bugs my mind. I think something deeper lies in this house. The one keeping me company most of the time is my sweetest grandmother from my father’s side. She taught me cooking and she’s even the reason why I took culinary as a course because she said, excellent cooks run in our blood and my dad was also a good cook as far as I remember. Because of that “blood”, I didn’t struggle living alone as I can cook myself some delish foods. My dad? Hmm. He was an architect and as I mentioned, he was the one who built and designed this house. I don’t have the clearest memory of what he looks like since the last time I saw him was 13 years ago. I was just 5 years old back then and I thank my memory for remembering some small details of my dad’s appearance and personality. I remember him having deep brown eyes, jet black hair, beige skin, medium build, always clean shaved, he has a neat appearance overall. I actually inherited some of my personal appearance from him such as my jet black hair that I colored into brown to compliment my brown eyes I also got from him. I have his pictures but I sometimes tear up upon looking at it so I try my best not to look at it these past few years. Not that I want to forget him but I’ll always remember him as a very kind man, sometimes he’s serious but when he sees me, he’ll always smile and ask me if I want to play outside, in the wide wooden deck in particular. Now that I’m thinking of it, I have so many memories of my dad and I spending so much time at that deck. Sometimes, we would just sit there in silence, him, drinking his hot coffee in the morning, feeling the breeze, and for me as a young child, would find that weird as a playtime. One time when we were sitting in silence, I remember myself looking at my dad and he seemed so melancholy staring at nowhere, so what I did was just hugging him as tight as I could. I also see him spending some alone time on the deck, with sadness in his eyes as always. Now that he’s gone for a long time and as I’m growing old, I can finally understand why this deck is my favorite spot of the house, it is where most of my best images and memories of my dad lie. And not gonna lie, that part of our house is cool every time because of the trees that surround it. When I visit this spot and just sit in silence like the good old days, I can’t help but feel a sudden throbbing pain in my chest so I always end up running inside the house. Call me a masochist but even if that place brings bittersweet memories for me, it’s still my favorite. My dad’s death is a huge mystery to me. Mom said he died because of a car accident but she didn’t provide me with more details when I asked her. And oftentimes, she would avoid my gazes when I ask her about that. Same as grandma and grandpa. I feel like there’s something more to my dad’s death but I might be overacting. In the end, I still choose to believe what my mom says, nothing more, nothing less. Maybe it is that painful for them that they chose to just not talk about it anymore, which I understand. I snapped back to reality when I heard a continuous loud thud in the basement, the sound was as if stacks of hardbound books fell on the floor. There were many boxes in the basement and it was dark inside. I sometimes get spooked out when I go there. Then suddenly I remembered I left the basement door open when I went to get cleaning supplies. I assume my dogs played and turned that messy basement into something messier. “Loki! Harley!” I called my dogs at the top of my lungs and I am right, they came rushing out of the basement door. They shook their bodies and I could see the dust flying everywhere. Oh yes, I just mopped the floor and suddenly, it's dusty again. I scratched my head and sat on the floor to calm myself down because my work will now include getting my dogs to take a bath. It makes me mad because I haven’t even finished a quarter of the house but as a dog lover, they licked my feet, probably their way of apologizing, it melted my heart so I told them I’m okay. Life is so unfair, especially when you have spoiled pets.