“I found it in the back corner of my bottom desk drawer.”
“Would you like to sit down?” Mrs. Dilmore asked.
“Please,” I whispered.
She took me to an empty side room with a single table, two chairs, and a window looking out toward the field where Owen used to cut across the grass when he thought I could not see him.
Some part of me knew whatever was inside would change something, and I was suddenly afraid of yet another change I had not chosen.
I slid a finger under the flap. Inside was a folded sheet of notebook paper. The second I saw my son’s handwriting, my heart ached so sharply I had to put one hand over it.
“Mom, I knew this letter would reach you if something happened to me. You need to know the truth. The truth about Dad and what has been going on these past few years…”
I was suddenly afraid of yet another change I had not chosen.
The room seemed to go thin around me. It felt heavy, like a boy trying to say something he had never found the courage to say while he still could.
Owen wrote that I should not confront Charlie first. He told me to follow him. To see something with my own eyes. Then go home and check beneath the loose tile under the little table in his room.
No explanation. No neat answer. Just a path.
I folded the letter and looked at Mrs. Dilmore. For the first time since the funeral, doubt had entered the room wearing my son’s handwriting.
