I put it down on the bed. My hands were shaking.
I had been so angry. In the car. In the diner. Six weeks you’ve been lying to me. You should have told me. And all this time there had been a shoebox in my closet with nineteen sealed envelopes inside it, and I had looked my son in the eyes every day for four years and never said a word.
I heard the front door open downstairs.
“Mom? I’m home. Jordan’s mom dropped me off.”
I sat very still. I could put the box back on the shelf. He’d never know. Greg would never know. I could close the lid and slide it behind the ornaments and nobody would ever have to find out what I’d done.
“Mom?” His footsteps on the stairs.
I looked at the letter on the bed. I hope you’re still skating.
