By everyone, he meant Logan, Ethan, me, Marisol, and eventually half the people who had become family by refusing to leave when things were inconvenient.
After dessert, Robert disappeared into his study.
He returned carrying a wooden box.
“For Ethan,” he said.
Inside were photographs.
Margaret as a child.
Elizabeth at college.
Robert and Margaret on their wedding day.
Logan on his first bicycle.
Thomas Bell at twenty-two.
Letters.
Family recipes.
A copy of Elizabeth’s original note.
On top was a blank journal.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Robert looked at Logan.
“For the things we tell him ourselves.”
Logan ran his fingers over the cover.
“No more secrets?”
Robert smiled.
“No more inherited silence.”
Ethan, who was far more interested in dessert than family history, pointed toward the kitchen.
“Cake?”
Everyone laughed.
“Yes,” Robert said, lifting him.
“History later. Cake now.”
By Ethan’s fourth birthday, Logan and I were living together again.
