“She made that tape?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“She said she kept your letters.”
“I know.”
“She said she was waiting for the right time.”
“There wasn’t one.”
“No.”
His gaze moved toward the box.
“Did you read any of them?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted to hear you first.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“You always did that.”
“What?”
“Made me tell you things instead of letting me hide behind paper.”
I opened my handbag and removed the photograph.
“Do you remember this?”
He took it carefully.
“I remember the day.”
“Who took it?”
“Your mother.”
“Why?”
“She said she wanted proof that we had once been happy before everything became complicated.”
I studied his face.
“My mother took this photo?”
“She came to the bleachers after we made the promise. She saw us sitting there and asked if she could take it.”
“That was the only time she met you before you left.”
