Paul came to stand beside his brother.
The two of them filled the doorway the way they used to when they were teenagers — shoulder to shoulder, too big for the frame.
“She said you were the bravest person she ever knew,” Paul said.
“And that we were too selfish to see it.”
I looked at my sons.
I had spent three years trying not to think about their faces.
Now I couldn’t look away.
“Can I read it?” I asked.
Daniel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.
It was worn at the edges, the kind of worn that comes from being handled too many times.
He held it out, and I took it with both hands.
The handwriting was hers.
I knew it before I even focused on the words — the slight lean to the right, the way she always looped her Gs.
My throat closed.
