“Moved west. Taught music for decades.”
That mattered.
Michael had built the exact life Adriel once told him was not a life.
The professor gave me enough information to continue looking, and two days later, I found a current number.
“Is this Michael?”
I stared at it for fifteen minutes before dialing.
A man answered.
“Hello?”
My throat tightened.
“Is this Michael?”
“My father hasn’t spoken to me in forty-two years.”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Daniel. I was your father’s neighbor.”
Silence.
Then,urm carefully:
“My father hasn’t spoken to me in forty-two years.”
I told him Adriel had died.
“I know.”
I told him Adriel had died.
Another silence followed.
Then Michael said, “I know.”
That surprised me.
“Why would I attend a funeral for a man who spent forty-two years proving he didn’t want me?”
“You knew?”
“I saw the funeral notice online.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
His answer was immediate.
“Why would I attend a funeral for a man who spent forty-two years proving he didn’t want me?”
“Michael, he wrote to you.”
I looked at the box.
“Michael, he wrote to you.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did.”
“I never received anything.”
His voice hardened.
“Because he never mailed them.”
Silence again.
“Letters?”
“Dozens.”
His voice hardened.
“He had forty-two years to send them.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because he asked me to.”
I told him about the box.
“So now I’m supposed to read them because he’s dead?”
Michael went quiet.
Then he said, “He had forty-two years to send them.”
“I know.”
“So now I’m supposed to read them because he’s dead?”
“No.”
“His instructions were clear. If you don’t want them, I take them home and leave you alone.”
That stopped him.
“His instructions were clear. If you don’t want them, I take them home and leave you alone.”
Silence.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t mail them.”
“He didn’t ask you to make me forgive him?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Don’t mail them.”
Saturday morning, I put the box on my passenger seat and drove west.
“I won’t.”
“Bring them, instead.”
He lived several hours away.
Saturday morning, I put the box on my passenger seat and drove west.
When Michael opened his door, I saw Adriel immediately.
His eyes dropped to the box.
Not exactly his face, but the same reserved expression, the same pause before speaking, even the same hand gripping the doorframe while thinking.
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped to the box.
I pushed the box toward him.
“Come in.”
We sat at his kitchen table.
I pushed the box toward him.
He didn’t touch it.
Instead, Michael asked, “What was he like at the end?”
Michael smiled before he could stop himself.
I had expected anger, maybe accusations.
I answered honestly.
“Quiet. Funny when you least expected it. Terrible at accepting help. Always early for church.”
Michael smiled before he could stop himself.
“Still early?”
He rubbed his thumb against the table.
“Painfully.”
“Still overcooked eggs?”
“Absolutely.”
He rubbed his thumb against the table.
I thought about the blue mug.
