He guided me toward the kitchen, away from the crowd.
Paul followed and closed the door behind us.
The noise from the other room became a low hum.
“We were clearing out the storage unit,” Daniel said.
“The one you paid for when we moved Mom’s things after she passed.
We kept meaning to go through it and never did.”
“Three years,” Paul said.
He wasn’t making an excuse.
He was stating a fact and letting it sit there.
“There was a box of her books,” Daniel continued.
“The letter was inside one of them.
Tucked into the last chapter.” He paused.
“It was addressed to both of us.
She knew we’d find it eventually.”
“She knew you,” I said.
“She knew us better than we deserved,” Daniel said.
The kitchen was quiet.
The refrigerator hummed.
Through the window I could see the backyard — the garden Margaret had planted the year before she got sick.
