“He’s a child,” I said. “Adults taught him cruelty. That doesn’t mean he has to graduate.”
Cassandra breathed out.
“I hope you’re right.”
So did I.
The next morning, my mother’s first letter arrived.
It was addressed to Emma and Noah.
I read it alone at the kitchen table.
Dear Emma and Noah,
I am sorry you were upset on New Year’s Eve. I never meant to make anyone feel excluded. Families are complicated, and sometimes adults make choices children do not understand.
I stopped reading.
Folded it back.
Placed it in a drawer.
Not ready.
Not honest.
Not enough.
But two days later, another letter arrived.
This one addressed to me.
Julia,
I found the birthday card you made me when you were eight. You drew roses around my name. I do not remember thanking you. I am sure I didn’t thank you properly.
