And an envelope.
Thick. Folded in half. Soft and worn at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.
Ezoic
On the front, in Greg’s handwriting, shaky and crooked:
Ezoic
For Laura. Only if she asks.
“What is this?” I asked.
“My ninth step,” Greg said.
I didn’t understand.
“AA,” he said. “The ninth step. Make amends to the people you hurt. Directly. Wherever possible.” He swallowed. “Except when to do so would injure them or others.”
He looked at me.
“I wrote that in 2022,” he said. “My first year sober. My sponsor said I should send it. I didn’t. I thought it would hurt you. I thought you’d built a good life. I didn’t want to tear it open.” He closed his eyes. “So I carried it. For three years. In the pocket of that jacket.”
I didn’t open it.
