My dearest Sarah,
I’m writing this after putting out the warehouse fire downtown. Three hours in scorching heat, breathing smoke that tasted like burnt plastic. All I could think was: ‘What if I never see her again?’
When you read this (2025!), I hope:
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We finally bought that ranch with horses. Our girls deserve to grow up chasing fireflies.
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You’ve stopped blaming yourself for the miscarriage. It wasn’t your fault. Never was.
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I’ve learned to say ‘I’m scared’ instead of hiding behind ‘I’m fine’.
Fun memory for us: That time we got locked in Target after closing? Best ‘kidnapping’ ever.
— Your stubborn cowboy
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