“Your mother chose every single woman your father has dated.”
I laughed. One short, disbelieving bark of a laugh, because it was insane.
“My mother has been dead for eight years.”
“I know.”
“So try again.”
Helen didn’t argue. She opened her handbag and drew out a folded sheet of paper, yellowed and soft with age. She didn’t hand it to me. She just laid it flat on the table between us.
At the top, in handwriting I would know anywhere, in handwriting I still saw in my dreams sometimes, it said:
Tom—
If you’re reading this, you finally ignored me long enough to open the blue box.
My knees went out from under me. I sat down in the chair I’d just refused.
“There are more,” Helen said.
“More what?”
“Pages. This is only one.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Your father has them.”
I reached for the paper. Helen pressed her palm flat over it, holding it to the table.
