Lily sat beside me.
So I told her.
About Carl’s test.
About the genetic marker.
About the letters.
And about Grandpa keeping them.
When I finished, Lily did not look at me.
She looked at Nathaniel.
“You knew Dad was writing?”
Dad nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ask about me?”
The question was so small it hurt.
“He did, sweetheart.”
“Did you answer?”
Dad hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
Lily stared at him.
“So he was allowed to know about my life.”
No one spoke.
“But I wasn’t allowed to know he cared enough to ask?”
Dad closed his eyes.
Lily reached into the box and picked up the first letter.
Age Six.
“Can I read these?”
I swallowed.
“They’re yours.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“You won’t stop me?”
“No.”
For once, I meant it completely.
Part 4 — The Letters Couldn’t Give Her Back Thirteen Years
Lily read for nearly two hours.
At first, quickly.
Then more slowly.
I stayed beside her, but I did not read over her shoulder.
Some things belonged only to her.
Occasionally, her face tightened.
Once, she laughed without meaning to.
Another time, she wiped her cheek angrily.
At seventeen, Carl had apparently stopped trying to make his absence sound noble.
