It was dated almost four years ago.
He had kept that promise. That was the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about. He’d disappeared until he was better, and then he’d come back. Not to my door. Not demanding anything. He’d climbed a ladder in rink two and fixed the boards and waited for his son to walk up to the water fountain.
Sam came home the next afternoon. Denise drove him. He walked in, and I was standing in the kitchen, and we looked at each other.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He put his jacket on the hook carefully. “I’m still mad.”
“I know. You should be.”
“I’m sorry I slammed the door.”
“I’m sorry about the letters.”
He nodded. He stood there a second longer. Then he walked over and hugged me, quick and hard, and stepped back.
“Can I have them?” he asked.
