Love, Dad.
I folded the letter with shaking hands.
Wyatt wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and laughed a little.
“He knew,” he said. “Didn’t he? That it would be Ezra.”
“I think he hoped,” I said.
My son stood, put the letter carefully back in the cedar box, and picked up his duffel bag. At the door, he stopped and looked back at me.
“Hey, Mom. Thanks for not lying. That time.”
“Thanks for asking me not to.”
He grinned — that crooked half smile — and went out to the car where his brother was waiting, honking the horn twice, the way they’d done since they were sixteen.
I stood on the porch and watched them drive away together.
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