“Why did you tell me about it?” I asked.
“Because it had your name on it.”
“You could have asked your family before contacting me.”
“I could have,” he said. “But the letter was addressed to you, and I didn’t want anyone else deciding what
you should know.”
There was no pressure in his voice.
He seemed as uncertain as I was, though he kept his hands clasped behind his back.
Daniel checked the envelope’s condition and the handwritten date on the flap.
The date was more than twenty years old, from the year I was born.
“Do you want to open it?” Daniel asked me.
I looked at the envelope and felt my mother’s absence as sharply as if she had just walked out of the room.
“Yes,” I said.
The flap had been sealed, but the paper had softened with age.
Daniel eased it open carefully, then withdrew a folded letter and placed it before me.
