I dropped my purse on the floor and crossed the room and knelt down and put my arms around him, and he held onto me with both hands, and we both cried like children.
When we finally let go, he held my face in his hands and looked at me like he was memorizing it.
“Why didn’t you ever write back?” he said.
I froze.
“What?”
“I wrote you. Every month. I gave them to the girls at the desk to mail. I never got a single letter back. Not one.” His eyes filled up again. “Your mother told me you were busy. That you had your own life. That you didn’t want an old man bothering you. I figured she was right. I figured you’d moved on.”
“Grandpa. I wrote you. I wrote you for a year. I gave every letter to Mom.”
He went very still.
