"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Nick pulled back.
"For what?"
"For not finding you."
He shook his head.
"We didn't find you either."
"My father took the letters."
Nick went still as I told him everything.
About the drawer.
The 23 envelopes.
The note.
When I finished, Nick stared through the window for a long time.
"So you didn't leave us."
"No."
He squeezed my hand.
"We didn't leave you either."
I had brought the old letters with me to Portugal.
I pulled out one of my own unsent letters and handed it to Nick.
He read the line I'd written at 18.
Don't miss
"Don't forget about me over there."
Nick closed his eyes.
"Harold," he said quietly, "we never did."
Those words hurt more than anything I'd read in the boxes.
Because they gave me exactly what I'd wanted at 18.
Only 55 years late.
We talked for hours. About Tommy, about Ray.
