Liam reached into the pocket attached to the side of his wheelchair.
“I’ve actually been keeping something.”
He removed a neatly folded stack of papers.
“I started writing when I was 10.”
My eyebrows lifted.
“You write?” I whispered.
He smiled.
“Every birthday.”
He unfolded the first page.
“I wrote letters to myself.”
Greg frowned.
“What kind of letters?”
“The kind I hoped I’d never need.”
Liam looked down and read.
“‘Dear Future Me, Dad didn’t come to my game today, but Mom cheered loud enough for both of them. Don’t let that make you think you’re worth less.'”
I burst into tears.
Liam picked up another page.
“‘Dear Future Me, if Dad ever tells you he’s proud of you, remember how long Mom waited to hear those words too.'”
Greg covered his face.
Liam lifted another page.
“‘Dear Future Me, don’t become someone who blames other people for the life you have. Be grateful for the people who stay.'”
