There was one left. March 13, 2022. The envelope was thicker than the others. The handwriting on it shook.
Leon held it for a long time before he opened it.
March 13, 2022. Dr. Asante says months, maybe less. So I won’t see another March. This is the last one. Odessa drove me here and helped me down the stairs and is waiting in the car pretending to do her crossword.
Twenty-four years, Leon. Twenty-four years of not today. Do you know what twenty-four years of not today adds up to? It adds up to a whole life. It adds up to every single day of it.
I chose you every one of those years. I want you to know that. I came down here every March and I sat in front of this locker with the bag in my lap and I decided. Don’t you ever think you were a sure thing, Leon Carter. You weren’t a sure thing. You were better than that. You were a choice. Every year, I looked at everything you were and everything you’d been, and I chose you again.
Not today. Not ever, it turns out.
Go read your letter now. I love you. I always did, even in 1998. That was the problem, and that was the whole entire point.