My hands trembled so badly that the paper rattled.
My darling boy,
If you are reading this, then your father kept his promise longer than I deserved.
I stopped.
My heart began pounding.
Frank pulled out the chair across from me, but I barely noticed.
I continued.
I need you to know that when you were nine years old, I did not die in the way you were told.
The room seemed to tilt.
I read the sentence again.
And again.
But it didn’t change.
My mother hadn’t died?
I remembered the funeral.
The black suit Dad forced me to wear.
The closed casket.
My aunt holding my shoulders while I screamed.
The priest saying, “She is at peace now.”
I remembered asking Dad if I could say goodbye one last time.
He had crouched in front of me and said, “No, buddy. You need to remember her the way she was.”
