I placed the key in my coat pocket.
At eight forty-five, Lucas arrived.
He had changed clothes but still looked as though he had not slept. He held the wooden box under one arm and a paper bag in the other.
“I brought coffee,” he said.
“I need it.”
He handed me a cup, then noticed the papers on the table.
“What did you find?”
“My mother’s letter.”
He set the box down.
“Your mother wrote to you?”
“About our parents.”
Lucas listened while I explained. I watched his expression change as the story unfolded—not toward anger, exactly, but toward a painful recognition.
“My grandmother kept the letters,” he said.
“My mother knew.”
“And neither of them told us.”
“Your grandmother was afraid the truth would destroy your father’s family. My mother was afraid I would spend the rest of my life waiting.”
Lucas looked at the box.
