He did not sit.
He stared at the envelopes, at the dates, at the patient years written across them in Frank’s plain handwriting.
Then he saw the letter.
He reached for it, but stopped before touching it.
The envelope was addressed to the child, not to him.
That small restraint saved something in me.
I told him the amount.
Just under fifty thousand dollars.
Kyle covered his face.
No man likes to discover that the richest thing in a room was the thing he allowed someone to throw away.
I did not comfort him right away.
Mothers are allowed to let sons feel the full weight of their silence.
When he finally lowered his hands, his eyes were wet.
He said he was sorry.
Not quickly.
Not as a way to end the discomfort.
