The first thing he asked was,
“Did you read it?”
“I read it.”
He searched my face.
“And?”
I took his hand.
“Apparently I have a whole box of birthday letters to read.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Then I looked at him.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me about Eleanor thirty years ago.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me you were scared about your memory.”
He looked away.
That part was also in the letter.
Six weeks earlier, Dad had experienced a brief memory lapse and panicked.
His doctors had found nothing definitive, but it terrified him.
He suddenly realized that if he waited too long to tell me the truth, there might come a day when no one believed him.
So he gathered proof.
Records.
DNA.
Legal documents.
Everything.
“I was afraid you’d look at me like I didn’t know what I was talking about,” he whispered.
