Brian closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“That was cruel.”
“Yes.”
“You made me miss Grandma’s house.”
His face twisted.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said, “You don’t get to call it Grandma’s house until you stop trying to take it.”
Brian broke.
He covered his mouth and cried like a boy.
Lily stepped back inside.
I remained at the door.
Brian wiped his face with his sleeve.
“She’s right,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “She is.”
After he left, we finished dinner quietly.
Later, when everyone had gone, I opened the envelope.
His letter was three pages long.
Messy handwriting. Crossed-out words. No excuses. Not perfect. Not enough.
But real.
I placed it in a folder.
Not the folder with evidence.
A new one.
I labeled it: If He Changes.
I did not know whether I would ever need it.
