Dear Anne,

It is inevitable that Father will find me. He has probably already hired private detectives by the slew to track me. Fortunately, he hasn't discovered my new email address yet. I would have heard from him by now if he had. He's tearing his hair out as we speak.

I'll get the ungrateful son routine when he does locate me. I'm always the one who is ungrateful. He never thinks he's the one. There was a time when I would have done anything for him. I looked up to him. He's my father. Things changed after mother died. Did I tell you she had leukemia? My once vibrant mother turned nearly skeletal overnight. The disease took her quickly. I think she just gave up.

I was twelve and impressionable. I loved her, and, suddenly, she was gone. Father took me to the viewing. I'll never forget seeing her in the coffin, so still, so cold. I reached out and touched her cheek, caressed it. Father slapped my hand away.

I can understand his sadness and his sense of loss. I felt the same. I wanted us to go on and on as a family. We weren't family anymore, father and I. We were drifters. Both looking for something we would never find. He became cool, driven.

Work, work, work. Father rarely came home. When he did, he sat at stared into the empty fireplace. He wouldn't answer if I spoke to him. We never ate together or threw football passes in the backyard. It was as though he turned off the love and affection faucet.

I started to paint. I took over mother's potters shed and set up my easel. I painted late into the night. Father never noticed. He came home from work and sat. We ate to survive, without enjoyment of taste or dinner conversations. I grabbed what I could; he grabbed what he wanted to eat.

I rebelled when he started to groom me. I couldn't bear sitting in an office all day, dealing with clients. Four stifling walls between me and the great outdoors. I wanted to capture life with my painting.

Father said painting was a dead end. I had to finish school and go to college. Well, I tried and failed. What more could I do? I ran. First Paris; now Vienna. Where next? I wonder. I will run again when he finds me.

Come to me, Anne, when you can. We can hide together in our own private sanctuary. I'm beginning to think I want a companion. Someone to talk to; someone to love. Love me, Anne. Please say you do.

Corey