And if Julian ever wonders what kind of man I hoped he’d become, tell him this: not someone who fixes everything. Nobody can. I only hope he becomes someone who notices when another person is carrying something too heavy alone.
Julian began crying before I did.
Quietly.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked annoyed with himself.
Maya turned her chair away slightly, giving him privacy without leaving him alone.
That small gesture nearly broke my heart more than the letter.
I read the last line.
Tell him kindness without judgment is rarer than talent. And tell him I never cared whether he became great at the guitar. I only cared that he kept listening.
I lowered the paper.
Julian whispered, “He wrote that before he died?”
“Yes.”
“He never heard me play properly.”
“He heard enough.”
Julian looked toward the floor.
“I sold the guitar.”
Rebecca’s voice came from behind us.
