“Has he eaten?”
“Twice.”
“That seems impossible.”
“I may have exaggerated once.”
I took Leo.
Dad stood.
Then something slipped from his coat pocket.
An envelope.
It landed face down.
I picked it up before Dad could.
My name was written across it in handwriting I recognized immediately.
My mother’s.
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Dad?”
He looked at the envelope.
“I found it two weeks ago.”
Mom had been dead eleven years.
“What is this?”
Dad’s voice softened.
“A letter she wrote before she died.”
My eyes filled.
