“The fire happened.”
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
“I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t?”
“You weren’t eating. You barely slept. Mom said anything about David leaving town would destroy you.”
I stared at him.
“So you kept it.”
“For a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
His eyes filled.
“A week became a month.”
“And a month became forty-two years?”
He looked down.
“After enough time passed, telling you felt impossible.”
I almost laughed.
“Impossible for you.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Finally, something honest.
Charlie led me into his workshop.
He opened an old desk drawer.
Removed a wooden tray.
Then reached into the back.
When he turned around, he was holding a yellowed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Laura.
David’s handwriting.
My hands shook as I took it.
The envelope had never been opened.
Inside was an acceptance letter.
David had been admitted to the training program.
