something behind to guide me through it.
Eventually, I folded the letter.
I went into the kitchen.
I made coffee.
Then I made eggs.
And for the first time in months, I sat down and ate an entire breakfast.
Afterward, I called Karen.
“I found something in Dad’s nightstand.”
She came that afternoon.
She read the letter at the kitchen table.
When she finished, she carefully laid it down.
“Dad wrote this three years ago?”
“Before he got sick.”
Karen looked at me.
“He was always himself, Mom.”
“I know.
