On the shelves were Ethan’s baby blankets, his first pair of shoes, and drawings I had never seen. There were photographs, school papers, and a small wooden train he used to carry everywhere.
I touched the side of a box.
“Why didn’t I know about any of this?”
Watcher moved toward the back wall.
There, beneath a stack of blankets, I found an envelope filled with cash. Beside it was a folder tied with faded string.
My fingers trembled as I untied it.
Inside were letters.
Dozens of them.
Some were written in Ethan’s childish handwriting. Others had been dictated from his hospital bed. Ruth had clearly preserved every one.
I opened the first letter.
“Dear Mama,” I read aloud. “I’m okay. Don’t be scared. Aunt M is keeping my things safe until you’re ready. I love you bigger than the sky.”
My voice broke.
