“So you let me keep mourning, for 50 years.”
He said he had written letters he never mailed. He thought I must eventually have married someone else. The longer he waited, the harder it became.
“I couldn’t bear to ruin the life I’d built,” he admitted.
I looked at him.
“So you let me keep mourning, for 50 years.”
“Your parents knew you came home. They knew where I lived. Why didn’t they tell me?”
He began crying.
But there was still something I didn’t understand.
“Your parents knew you came home. They knew where I lived. Why didn’t they tell me?”
Thomas stared at his hands.
“They were notified when I was released. You weren’t listed as my next of kin.”
“That doesn’t explain why they never called me.”
“I told them I’d written to you.”
He looked away.
“I told them I’d written to you.”
“And?”
“That you knew I was alive. That you’d told me not to contact you again.”
