My mother’s letter was dated the week before she died. “My dearest Daniel,” it began, “if you are reading this, someone kept their promise, and I am so sorry I could not be there.” My vision blurred. She wrote that she had given the letter to Sharon’s mother, her old friend, to hold until the day I turned eighteen. Somehow it had never reached me. The newer letter lay beside it, signed “Brooke.”

I opened the newer one with shaking hands. “Daniel, I found Mom’s old friend’s box after Grandma passed,” Brooke wrote. “Inside was this letter, and a second one addressed to Dad, which I read. I need you to know what it says before you decide whether to come.” Outside, a car pulled into my driveway. Through the window, I saw an older man step out slowly, leaning on a cane, and I knew that walk.