“We found the notebook,” June said. “He who is in the kitchen drawer.”
I closed my eyes and grabbed the camera so hard that I heard the plastic crack. I thought of the gas receipt note, still folded in my wallet. I thought of Patricia, and every birthday I had sat on that deformed kitchen table with a pen, writing to three girls who were already asleep.
At that time, I told myself that they had read it someday or would not, and either way I had said what I needed to say.
Then June started reading.
I closed my eyes.#
“To my girls. You have a year today. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, and I don’t know if I’ll still be doing this right by then, but I wanted to write it, anyway.”
Something cold ran straight down my spine.
I knew those words. He knew the rhythm of them and the man who had written them, only on a kitchen table on a hardware store, with three babies asleep in a single crib because he could not pay three.
