Twenty years of letters he never had the nerve to send you.
He read the first letter standing in the parking lot of his own job site, arms crossed at first, then slowly uncrossing as he got further into it. By the third letter, he'd sat down on the tailgate of his truck, reading in silence while I stood a respectful few feet away, not sure whether he wanted company or space.
"He wrote one every year," Desmond finally said, his voice rough. "Every single year, for almost twenty years."
"He did," I said.
"Why didn't he ever send them after the first few?"
"Because you sent the first four back unopened," I said gently. "He told his lawyer it felt better to keep writing toward something than to keep writing toward nothing."
It felt better to keep writing toward something than to keep writing toward nothing.
Desmond was quiet for a long time after that, sitting on his tailgate with twenty years of his stepfather's grief spread across his knees.
