PART 7
My son looked down.
She was right.
The paper had another fold.
He opened it.
There was a second page.
His mother’s handwriting covered both sides.
He began reading.
His voice shook.
“Dear Daniel,
If you are reading this, your father has finally told you about Rebecca.
But that is not the reason I wrote this.”
He looked at me.
Then continued.
“I wrote it because there is something you need to understand about your father.”
I smiled sadly.
“Of course,” I whispered.
My wife had always found a way to make me the lesson.
My son read on.
“He thinks he failed me because he couldn’t save my life.”
His eyes lifted.
I couldn’t look at him.
“He thinks he should have noticed more.”
My son stopped.
His lips trembled.
I knew exactly what sentence came next.
“She doesn’t blame you,” he said softly.
I nodded.
He continued.
“Your father saved my life more times than he knows.”
He stopped again.
“Not from cancer.”
He looked at me.
“From myself.”
The hallway went silent.
My son lowered the letter.
“What does that mean?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I knew.
He needed to read it himself.
He did.
“After my diagnosis, there were nights when I didn’t want to wake up.”
My son’s face crumpled.
“She never told me that.”
“She didn’t want you to carry it.”
He kept reading.
“I was afraid. Angry. Ashamed. I thought everyone would remember me as the woman who died.”
My son wiped his eyes.
“Your father never let me disappear into that fear.”
He read the next line.
“He made me laugh.”
A tiny smile appeared on my son’s face.
“That sounds like Dad.”
I laughed softly.
“Your mother thought my jokes were terrible.”
“She was right.”
I smiled.
“Probably.”
Then he read:
“So if he tells you he failed me, don’t believe him.”
My son’s voice broke.
“He loved me enough to stay.”
He stopped.
For several seconds he couldn’t continue.
His bride put her arm around him.
Finally he whispered:
“There’s more.”
He read the final paragraph.
“Your father will probably spend the rest of his life carrying the things I asked him to carry.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t let him.”
I froze.
My son continued.
“Make him put them down.”
The letter ended there.
No signature.
It didn’t need one.
My son folded the paper.
Then he walked toward me.
I expected anger.
Instead, he hugged me.
I stood there stunned.
His arms went around me.
And suddenly I was holding my little boy again.
The boy his mother had left behind.
I cried into his shoulder.
“I should’ve told you.”
“I know.”
“I was scared.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“You were.”
I pulled away.
He looked at me.
“But you don’t have to protect me from the truth anymore.”
I nodded.
“No.”
His bride stepped forward and hugged me too.
Then she whispered:
“Thank you for keeping the promise.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t know if I’d make it through tonight.”
She smiled.
“You did.”
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