Michael stared at the envelope as if it might burn him.
“Why today?” Eleanor asked.
June’s expression was helplessly weary. “Because he knew today would be hard. And because he knew you’d never come to my condo to hear him out after he was dead.” She held the envelope toward Michael. “It’s for both of you. He made me promise I’d wait until I thought you might actually read it instead of tearing it up.”
Michael took it.
His father had always written by hand when the subject mattered. Even grocery lists on the kitchen counter used full block letters as if communication should survive chaos. Michael turned the envelope over. On the back was a single line: For Eleanor and Michael, if you can stand to hear from me one more time.
Eleanor inhaled shakily. “I don’t know if I can.”
Michael slid a finger under the flap. “Then I’ll read it.”
He unfolded three pages.