My voice hardened.
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“I know.”
“Then you’re twenty years late.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because after Thomas d/i/e/d, your mother begged me not to.”
I stood.
“She knew?”
“Yes.”
“She knew you had this?”
“Yes.”
Anger rose.
“Everyone knew except me.”
“Christopher.”
“Everyone decided what I could handle.”
“I’m sorry.”
I walked toward the window.
Below us, the city looked tiny.
Orderly.
Traffic moving in perfect lines.
People heading home.
People living lives filled with secrets nobody else could see.
My mother had d/i/e/d six years earlier.
I could never ask her why.
Maybe she had been afraid.
Maybe she believed she was protecting me.
Maybe there were no perfect choices.
Only human ones.
I returned to the desk.
Then opened the letter.
The paper inside was covered in handwriting.
I began reading.
Christopher,
If you are reading this, then you are old enough to understand something I wasn’t brave enough to explain when you were small.
