When I asked him, he returned carrying an old shoebox.
“I don’t know.”
Luke did.
When I asked him, he returned carrying an old shoebox.
Inside were copies of dozens of letters.
Birthday letters.
Letters ending with the same sentence.
Christmas letters.
Letters asking about school.
Letters ending with the same sentence.
I’m still your brother.
“She never answered one,” Luke said.
A few days later, she told me Emma’s parents were willing to talk, but they wanted to move slowly.
Something wasn’t right.
Denise made several calls. A few days later, she told me Emma’s parents were willing to talk, but they wanted to move slowly.
“Maybe we should wait before putting Luke and Emma in the same room,” she said. “Let the adults work through the history first.”
I stared at her.
“The adults have been deciding what those two can handle for years.”
“I’m asking you not to turn ‘slowly’ into another few years.”
“Caroline—”
“I’m not asking you to throw them together without support. I’m asking you not to turn ‘slowly’ into another few years.”
Denise was quiet.
“A supervised meeting,” I said. “If Luke wants it and Emma wants it.”
Eventually, everyone agreed.
“What if she doesn’t want me?”
Luke almost refused to go.
“What if she doesn’t want me?”
“Then we’ll respect that.”
“What if she hates me?”
“Then you’ll survive hearing the truth.”
Emma’s parents, Rachel and David, met us in their living room.
“And if she forgot me?”
I couldn’t answer that one.
Emma’s parents, Rachel and David, met us in their living room.
Rachel looked nervous.
David looked ashamed.
She returned carrying a plastic storage bin and set it in front of Luke.
After ten minutes of strained conversation, Rachel went upstairs.
She returned carrying a plastic storage bin and set it in front of Luke.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Letters.”
She opened the lid.
Every one had Luke’s name on it.
Envelopes filled the box.
Every one had Luke’s name on it.
Luke picked one up.
The handwriting was childish.
