I stared at it until the letters stopped making sense. “A grief counselor.”
“For four decades. He sat with families right after the worst day of their lives, over and over, for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“He never told me that. Not once.”
“He almost never told anyone. He believed people opened up more honestly when they didn’t feel like they were being handled.” The attorney folded the clipping closed. “You weren’t a patient to him, Sarah. You were the only person in years who sat with him the same way he’d spent his whole life sitting with everyone else.”
I cried without bothering to hide it, because it sounded exactly like something Thomas would engineer from a hospital bed, quietly, without ever once explaining himself.
Part Four: After Tuesday
Just as I reached for the backpack to leave, the attorney opened his desk drawer. “One more thing. I almost let you walk out without it.” He set a final envelope on the desk between us. Two words were written across the front: “After Tuesday.” “He made me promise not to give this to you until after the funeral. He was very specific about the timing.”
