He reached toward it.
I didn’t move it away.
But I didn’t release it immediately either.
“He said I had to decide whether you received it.”
Dad looked at me.
“And?”
I handed it to him.
“You should have the choice to read what he wrote about you.”
He took the envelope.
For several seconds, he simply held it.
Then he opened it.
I looked toward the bookshelves.
Whatever Grandpa had written was between them.
At least at first.
Dad read silently.
His face changed only once.
A small tightening around the eyes.
After several minutes, he placed the letter on the desk.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Dad gave a quiet laugh.
“Your grandfather apologized.”
That stunned me more than almost anything else.
“For what?”
“For raising me to believe approval had to be earned.”
He looked toward Grandpa’s empty chair.
“He wrote that he watched me repeat the mistake with you and said nothing because admitting what I was doing would require admitting where I learned it.”
I felt something inside me soften.
Not disappear.
Not heal instantly.
Just soften.
“Why did he wait so long?”
Dad folded the letter carefully.
“Because apparently stubbornness is hereditary.”
I laughed.
I hadn’t meant to.
Dad did too.
Barely.
