In the third, the handwriting began to shake.
He admitted he had asked the bank manager twice whether the card had been used and had felt both relieved and sick when the answer was no.
The last letter was written unevenly, with letters that slanted downhill as if his hand could not hold the line.
In it, he said he did not know whether courage would have looked like staying and telling me the truth, or whether that would only have trapped me in a promise I was too decent to break.
He said he had spent the last year wondering whether what he called protection had really just been another form of control.
That question stayed with me.
A week later, after my tests were done and my medication started, I went to the care facility where he had spent his last months.
I did not know why I went.
