Below the records was a recent photograph.
Carl was sitting in a chair in a small apartment.
He looked older.
Of course he did.
Thirteen years older.
The disease had changed him.
But he was smiling.
Not pretending.
Not performing for the camera.
He simply looked peaceful.
At the bottom of the box was another letter.
This one was much shorter.
Carl wrote that Lily was eighteen now.
He said she no longer needed to be protected from the truth.
Neither did I.
He apologized for the silence.
He wrote that it was the only way he had known to protect us.
Then he said:
If you want to find me, Daniel knows how.
If you don’t, I understand.
He wrote that Dad had sent him photographs of Lily every year.
Birthday pictures.
Christmas pictures.
Sometimes short videos.
Then came one sentence that broke me.
He wrote:
“She has Emily’s laugh.”
