“For what?”
“For believing the house was part of our plan.”
“You weren’t the only one.”
“I encouraged it.”
“So did I.”
“You told my parents we’d be moving there.”
“I know.”
“You told them your mother had promised.”
“I know.”
Megan pressed her lips together.
“I didn’t understand the difference between family and access.”
Patrick looked toward the open storage unit. His belongings filled the space in uneven stacks, evidence of a life he had assumed could always return to the lake.
“I didn’t either.”
She rose and walked to the desk. On the corner sat the framed photograph of Patrick and George.
Megan picked it up, then wiped a film of dust from the glass with her sleeve.
“You look so much like him here.”
“I used to hate hearing that.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone said it when I was young, as if looking like him meant I had to become him.”
“And now?”
Patrick looked at the photograph.
“Now I’m afraid I became the wrong parts.”
Megan placed the frame back on the desk.
“You’re not your worst decision.”
“I keep making decisions that hurt people and calling them love.”
She had no answer for that.
Neither did he.
The children were waiting in the car with Megan’s parents, who had agreed to watch them while Patrick and Megan sorted through the unit. Patrick had insisted they return before lunch. He suddenly wanted to see his children, not because he needed to be reassured by them, but because he wanted to remember what kind of father he hoped to be.
Before leaving, he opened the manila envelope again.
There was something behind the letter.
A narrow strip of yellowed paper, folded twice.
