He was thirty-four, my late brother’s son, and the only family I had left.
He stood in the doorway of my daughter’s room holding the photograph, turning it over in his hands like he was waiting for it to change.
“How long has she been back in town?” I asked.
“Two years, maybe a little more.” He set the photo on the dresser.
“She keeps to herself.
I’ve seen her car at the grocery store a few times.
I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Did she ever ask about me?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
I turned back to the note.
There were three more pages folded beneath the first one.
I hadn’t seen them when my hands were shaking so badly.
I smoothed them out on my knee and began to read.
