Chapter 8
Mom lifted the first bundle. “I found these behind the bottom drawer of his desk.”
“How?”
“The drawer jammed.”
“Dad defeated by office furniture from beyond the grave,” Mara said.
Mom smiled faintly. Then she removed one envelope. It had Mom's name on it.
“Your father wrote this before you were born,” she said.
My chest tightened. “Why didn't he give it to you?”
“He did.”
“Then why was it hidden?”
“I hid it.”
Mara looked confused. Mom unfolded the letter. “I found these again last month.”
She placed it in front of us. Dad's handwriting covered the page. I recognized the looping capital letters immediately.
Mom didn't read it aloud. She let us read privately. The letter was not romantic in the dramatic way I expected. It was practical. Gentle. Dad wrote that he knew Mom sometimes became afraid when life was peaceful because she had spent years expecting peace to disappear. He promised he would never demand explanations for emotions she didn't yet understand. He promised patience.
Then one sentence made me stop. You do not have to earn ordinary kindness.
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Mara wiped her eyes. “Dad wrote that?”
Mom nodded. “Before our wedding.”
“Why did you hide it?”
“I didn't hide it from him.” She touched the paper. “I hid it from myself.”
I didn't understand.
May you like
Mom took another envelope from the box. This one was addressed in different handwriting. Her hands trembled slightly.
“This arrived a few weeks after I left the relationship I told you about.”
