Eleanor did not smile exactly, but some hardness left her face. She kept reading. The letters spanned decades, and with them came a whole emotional weather system Michael had never been allowed to witness while it was forming. There were notes from Eleanor furious over missed anniversaries, holiday cards full of family updates, clippings about Michael’s Little League games, and one short letter written after a brutal fight in which she said, I am tired of being the ground everything lands on. Michael had to step into the hallway when he saw that line because it hit too close to truths he had only recently learned how to name.
On the way back from the hallway, he found June standing alone near the window with one of Thomas’s later notebooks in hand.
“This is yours too,” he said gently.
June looked up. “I know. I’m just trying not to intrude on something.”
Michael glanced toward the table where Eleanor was still reading, cheeks damp and posture rigid. “You’re not intruding. You’re in the story whether anybody likes the editing or not.”
June snorted softly. “That may be the nicest unsettling thing you’ve ever said to me.”
By late afternoon the table held small piles.