P.S. Sofia wants me to tell you that Frijol is not actually the dumbest dog in Arizona. He's just "thinking about other things."
Tyler read it until the words blurred. Then he did something he had not done since the night of the barbecue. He went downstairs and found his mother in the laundry room, folding towels, and stood in the doorway.
Melissa looked up. She went very still, a towel half-folded in her hands, the way you go still when a wild animal walks into your yard and you are afraid any movement will send it away.
"Tell me about him," Tyler said.
She set the towel down. She did not ask who. She sat down on the step stool next to the dryer, and he sat on the floor with his back against the washing machine, and she told him. She told him that Daniel Reyes had played the trumpet in marching band and been terrible at it and loved it anyway. That he had a laugh that started quiet and went on too long so that everyone around him started laughing too. That his father had driven a city bus and died of cancer their senior year, and Daniel had given the eulogy and not cried until the very last line. That his mother, Rosa, made tamales every Christmas Eve, dozens and dozens, and the whole neighborhood came. That he had wanted to be a doctor but loved teaching kids more. That he had been kind to her, when she was at the lowest point in her life, and asked for nothing.
"Were you ever going to tell me?" Tyler asked when she was done.
Melissa looked at her hands. "I don't know," she said. "I want to say yes. I told myself yes, every year. But I don't know, Tyler. That's the truth. I was a coward. Not about everything, but about this."