Close enough to remember.
Lucas continued.
“The attorney then searched for my father because his full name was written on the third box.”
I looked at Douglas.
“You’ve had these things for a year?”
“Eleven months.”
“And you never called me?”
His eyes filled.
“I tried.”
My anger came quickly.
It surprised me.
Forty-one years of longing had softened so many things that I had almost forgotten anger belonged among them.
“You tried?”
“I hired someone to find you.”
“You had my mother’s letters. You had my name. I’ve been living twenty minutes from here for three years.”
“I know that now.”
“Then how did it take eleven months?”
Lucas interrupted quietly.
“Because Dad was diagnosed two weeks after he got the boxes.”
The anger left me almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Douglas looked smaller beneath the hospital blanket.
“I thought I had time,” he whispered.
