I sat down. Mrs. Dilmore quietly closed the door behind her and gave me the room.
For a moment I just held the envelope.
Whatever was inside had come from my son — written in the time before, when he was still alive and still finding ways to be thoughtful in the quiet, sideways manner he had always had. And it was addressed to me. And I was about to open it in a school conference room on a Tuesday afternoon while his sneakers sat undisturbed on his bedroom floor.
I slid my finger carefully under the flap.
The paper inside was a single sheet of college-ruled notebook paper, folded in thirds. I recognized it immediately — the same kind he used for homework, the same blue lines, the same slightly rushed handwriting that moved faster on the left side of the page than the right.
“Mom, I knew this letter would reach you if something happened to me. You need to know the truth. The truth about Dad — and what he’s been doing these past two years.”
