I had put the shoebox on the kitchen table that morning. I picked it up and held it out to him with both hands. He took it. He looked at it for a long moment, and then he carried it upstairs, and I heard his door close. Quietly. Not a slam.
He stayed in his room until dinner. When he came down, his eyes were red. He didn’t say anything about the letters. He just sat down and ate his pasta, and halfway through he said, “Did you know Dad scored a goal on his own team when he was ten?”
“I didn’t,” I said.
“He did. Against the Glens Falls Wolves. He said his coach made him skate laps until he threw up.” Sam almost smiled. “That’s kind of the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s pretty bad,” I said.
We made an arrangement after that. I called Greg and told him the truth about the letters. He was quiet on the phone for a long time. Then he said, “Thank you for telling me,” and I could hear in his voice that he was crying, and that he wasn’t going to let me hear it.
