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The whole house stands quiet this evening, the occasional misplaced sound of the floor creaking or a horse neighing outside. Washington stands silent in the room, his hand grasping the delicate, fevered one. The boy settles after the fit, but he doesn’t wake. Alexander has declined for days, this brutal fever raging in defiance of every remedy the surgeon tries. Some hours ago the surgeon muttered a warning…
“If he has any family, it may be time to write them.”
Washington has never known Alexander to speak of family, save for short comments about his late mother, and one drunken, bitter mention of an absent father. The thought of letting his brilliant, fiery young aide fade away without a word to someone who might care, that is unbearable.
This is how Washington finds himself in the room, rifling through Alexander’s belongings. It’s a task that feels like a violation, as much as he tells himself it’s necessary. Among disorganized papers and drafts and work, he finds it: a folded sheet, ink smudged around the edges like it’s been handled too often. A letter, simply addressed at one corner:
To my Father
Washington hesitates, then slowly, deliberately, unfolds the parchment.
Sir,
I do not presume to expect a response as it has been many years since I have heard anything of you. Perhaps it is foolish, but I wonder if you think of me. I wonder if you’ve ever regretted leaving. I wonder if you would even recognize me, should you see me now. I have worked to make something of myself, to rise above the ruin you left behind. I tell myself I do not care for your approval, but it would be a lie to say I do not wish you could see me- see what I have become, and that I am worth something after all.
The letter ends there, unfinished and trailing off, an abandoned thought. A sharp line crosses through the last few lines. Other following words are scribbled out entirely. Unfinished. Slowly, Washington folds the letter again, grasps it tightly.
“My boy…”
For all of Alexander’s bravado, his sharp edges, the letter reveals an unguarded vulnerability he has never shown.
A soft sound, and Washington turns toward the bed. Alexander stirs, eyes glassy and unfocused, but they find him nonetheless. “General?” The one word is barely more than a whisper, every effort to give it voice.
“I’m here,” Washington replies immediately. He sits in the chair next to the bed where he has spent many hours over the last several days. He reaches out, fingers carding through Alexander’s hair.
“Did… we win, sir?” Alexander furrows his brow. Poor boy. He can’t remember why he’s here, doesn’t realize how ill he is.
Washington manages a small smile, maybe more a comfort to himself than Alexander. “There’s no battle tonight. Rest easy, son.”
Son.
There’s a flicker of something in the boy’s fever bright eyes. His gaze shifts, falls on the letter in Washington’s hand. Then comes a soft, shuddering breath. “You… found it.”
Washington feels his chest tighten.
“My letter,” Alexander murmurs. He turns his head, gazing at something ethereal far across the room. “I… shouldn’t care, should I? About him. He… left. Doesn’t care. He never cared.”
Washington draws a sharp breath, takes Alexander’s hand and grips it tight. “Why would you care, my boy?” He speaks gently, but there’s some pained weight behind each word. “Why seek the approval of a man who abandoned you?”
Alexander stares at him a moment, his lip trembles. “Because he’s supposed to care. He’s supposed… to love me. And if… if he doesn’t, what does that say about me?” His voice cracks, eyes flutter as he struggles to stay present.
Something shatters in Washington’s heart at that. He reaches out, resting his palm against Alexander’s forehead as if that can root him to reality. “It says nothing about you. It’s his failure alone. You are…” He pauses, draws a breath and leans closer. “You are extraordinary. You’ve proven your worth a thousand times over.”
But he is too far gone to truly hear. That fevered gaze falls back on Washington with some flicker of recognition. “You came,” Alexander whispers, his voice heavy with delirium. “Knew you would. I’ve been… waiting… so long.”
Washington’s heart clenches, “Alex, it’s me. It’s Washington.”
Alexander blinks back at him, his hazy, fevered mind cannot comprehend the truth. His hand clutches at Washington’s sleeve, voice softening to a childlike whisper. “You came back… Father…”
Washington stares down at him, squeezes his hand to his chest, unable to find the right words to bring Alexander’s mind back from wherever it is.
“Father…” The voice is soft, barely there.
This time Washington’s throat feels tight. Best though, not to trouble Alexander further in this state. He settles closer. “I’m here, son. I’m here.”
Alexander’s eyes meet his for just a moment, and then they flutter closed. His hand goes limp in Washington’s grasp as he sinks into merciful unconsciousness. Washington does not move. He cannot. He remains there for hours, his heart heavy and aching for his boy. His Alexander, shining, brilliant, incomparable. Yet, weighed down by these chains of abandonment on his very soul.
He breathes a soft sound in his sleep. It could be nonsense, but Washington hears a word.
Stay.
And stay he does.