Derek had spent months trying to replace borrowed money before confessing.
And Dad himself had spent decades doing the same thing with his brother.
The pattern was not subtle anymore.
“Do you know where Luis is?” I asked.
Mom stood.
She went to the old telephone desk in the hallway and opened the bottom drawer.
From behind a stack of warranties, she removed an envelope.
Dad stared at her.
“You kept that?”
“Of course I kept it.”
The postmark was seven years old.
Santa Fe, New Mexico.
The return address belonged to Luis Ruiz.
Dad smiled despite himself.
“Your mother saves everything.”
“Things become history because women like me refuse to throw them away,” Mom replied.
Inside was a Christmas card.
The message was brief.
Manuel,
I don’t know whether we still have time to become brothers again.
If you ever decide we do, this address will reach me.
