It is framed, above my desk, uncashed, with the memo line facing out.
Clothes. Court.
It reminds me what a man thinks a woman is worth when he thinks she’ll never find out.
In September, one year after a courtroom, I started writing letters.
Not to anyone living.
To Eli, at twenty-five, who will open the trust Celia built and find, in the folder with the silver crest, a stack of envelopes in my handwriting, one for every month between now and then.
I tell him what he was like at eight.
I tell him about Lisbon, and the bathroom fan, and forty seconds of video that a child shot because nobody else in his family would.
I tell him about his grandmother, who sat with him on Wednesdays and told nobody.
I tell him what the four songs were, because he’ll have forgotten, and I write the order down, because it mattered.
