Wyatt opened the envelope at our kitchen table, in the same chair where he’d sat in his coat that Sunday.
He read it once to himself. Then he slid it across to me, because he couldn’t read it out loud.
Wyatt,
If you’re reading this, you know. I’m sorry you had to find out without me there. I was scared, buddy. Scared you’d look at me and see a stand-in.
So here’s what I want you to know. Another man gave you your eyes and your hair. I didn’t give you either of those.
I gave you your bad jokes. Your stubbornness. The way you always hand people things before they ask. I taught you to throw a ball and to say sorry when you mean it. That’s mine. Nobody can take that.
If you have a brother out there, be good to him. Be the kind of brother I never got to be.
