“He was saving for us,” Noah said.
Underneath the folder were letters. Dozens of them. Some in Josh’s handwriting, some in a woman’s careful script I had never seen.
I opened one of Josh’s letters first. My eyes blurred halfway through.
“He knew,” I whispered. “He overheard Clara talking to Grandma Ruth years ago. He knew Mom didn’t abandon us.”
“Then why didn’t he tell us?”
“He says here he was scared. Scared of how Clara would treat us if we knew. He said he wanted to wait until we were 18 and give us the trust and the truth together.”
Noah sank into the chair.
“And then he died first.”
I picked up the other letters, noticing the careful script and the hospital letterhead.
“These are from our mother,” I said. “She wrote to Clara. From the hospice.”
I unfolded the last one. The paper was soft from being held many times, then forgotten.
