“Why?”
“Because it’s addressed to you.”
He turned the envelope over.
Then put it in a drawer.
Weeks passed.
He didn’t open it.
Months passed.
Still unopened.
On the crash’s anniversary, Evan asked to visit the site.
I didn’t understand why, but agreed.
County Road 14 looked ordinary in daylight.
No wrecked SUV.
No police tape.
No blood.
Just grass, asphalt, and a shallow drainage ditch.
Evan stood near where he had lain.
He was seventeen now.
Taller.
Stronger.
He stared at the ground.
“I remember hearing Grandma.”
I waited.
“I remember thinking you weren’t coming.”
“I was coming.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the highway.
Then smiled faintly.
“That truck driver came.”
“Yes.”
“And you came.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“That’s enough.”
Three months later, he opened Mom’s letter.
He read it alone.
Then came downstairs and handed it to me.
“You can read it now.”
I did.
Mom apologized.
Not perfectly.
She still explained too much in places.
She wrote about fearing for Melissa.
About panic.
