The letter inside had been written in Carl’s careful handwriting.
*Selena,*
*Our meeting was not an accident.*
*Before I became your husband, I was the awkward guy who lived two houses down and spent every autumn hoping you would stop by Arthur’s workshop.*
Marriage
My knees struck the floor.
Mr. Baron caught my elbow, but the letter slipped from my hand.
Two houses away.
Arthur’s workshop.
A narrow alley.
The smell of sawdust and bicycle grease.
Memory returned so suddenly that I could not breathe.
“Silver Oak Street,” I whispered.
Mr. Baron nodded.
I had lived there until I was fourteen.
Then my parents died in a car accident, and I entered foster care. Strangers packed our home while I sat in a county office holding a trash bag filled with clothes.
Parenting
I never returned.
“I knew a guy,” I said. “Quiet. Dark hair.”
“Carl,” Mr. Baron murmured.
