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January 31st, 2016

Dear Michael,

You don't have to come to the wedding if you don't want to.

I realize that it was a stretch, writing you that letter last year.

You haven't seen Luke or me for three years now.

I realize now that the last time you saw us didn't go down well.

You hated me then for breaking your heart.

I realize that you probably still hate me now.

I'm sorry.

I really am.

I'm driving up to San Francisco tomorrow to finalize some wedding details.

Just me.

No Luke.

I'm also stopping by the old neighborhood to visit my parents.

Please meet me.

1:30, my backyard?

We can sit on the ancient swing-set like we used to, even though it is the middle of winter and snowing outside.

We can sit inside and sip on hot cocoa like we used to, even though I'm pretty sure we're both coffee drinkers now.

We can talk to my parents the whole time like we used to, even though they'd probably interrogate you to death about your job, your girlfriend, and life in general.

Either way, I hope you will come.

You can tell me how much you hate me, if you want.

You can tell me that you want me dead, if you want.

You can tell me that you never want to see me again, if you want.

I just really want to see you.

Otherwise, have a nice winter.

Try not to slip and fall; I heard it's going to be icy tomorrow.




Mailed by: Emilia Chesterfield (Portland, Oregon)

Delivered to: The Michael Stanford/Kendra Smith Residence (San Francisco, California)

Read by: Kendra Smith

Shredded by: Kendra Smith

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