PART 16

The letter arrived in a plain envelope with the county letterhead in the corner.

Tyler’s handwriting was still the handwriting of a boy who rushed his lowercase e.

I read it first.

He said he was sorry he kicked him. He said he was sorry he lied. He said his mom was scared and he was scared and that was not an excuse. He said he hoped the rib got better. He said he would stay away until grown-ups said he could say hello.

It was not poetry.

It was better than poetry. It was specific.

I asked my son if he wanted to hear it.

He did.

I read it out loud at the kitchen table. When I finished he looked at the envelope for a long time.

“He spelled my name right,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Can I keep it?”

“If you want.”

He put it in the drawer where he kept rocks and old movie tickets.

He did not write back that week.

A month later he did, three sentences.

I got better. Don’t kick people. Thank you for telling the truth at the end.

I mailed it through the case worker.

That was enough conversation for a long time.