His confession hurt more than I could say.
“Grandpa tells me
stories,” he continued. “He remembers things I don’t.”
“I should’ve told you stories too.”
“You still could.”
I got to my feet.
“Come with me.”
******NEXT PAGE
At the back of my bedroom closet sat a box I hadn’t opened since Michael’s death. I brought it to the bed and removed the lid. Inside lay his notebook, a photograph, his broken watch, and some folded papers.
Nathan picked up a sketch of the rocking chair. Written in Michael’s handwriting across one corner were the words:
“For our little boy.”
He gently followed the letters with his finger.
“He made this for me?”
“Before you were born.”
“Why didn’t you show me?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to look through any of it.”
Nathan looked down at the page.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Mom.”
