from my allowance. Please use it for her. Please tell me she is okay.”
A later letter had been written in a messier, older hand.
“Grandfather says he’s leaving something for me when I’m old enough. Dad says I’ll never touch any of it without him. Maybe someday I’ll finally be able to help you myself.”
He had known.
On the back of the final letter, my mother had written five words in her familiar slanted handwriting.
“He isn’t like his father.”
I stared at them.
My mother had trusted
