Would he have inherited my temper? Would he have liked music? Would he have come home late and pretended he had been studying?
I will never know.
But today he held my hand, and I realized something.
I spent forty years grieving the son I lost.
Then life gave me a chance to know the man he became.
It was not enough time.
But it was time.
I sat there for a long while.
Then I noticed a smaller envelope tucked into the back of the notebook.
It contained one final letter.
This one was not written by Eleanor.
The handwriting belonged to my father.
At the top, he had written:
For Daniel, if Eleanor ever finds the courage to tell you.
I unfolded it.
My son,
If you are reading this, then the secret I carried for most of my life has finally reached you.
I don’t know whether you will hate me.
