I stood and walked to the window.
Outside, Ethan’s bicycle rested against the garage.
The handlebars were slightly crooked because he had tried to adjust them himself.
A normal problem.
I focused on it.
Behind me, Mom said, “I was wrong.”
I kept looking outside.
“I wish I had some explanation that made it smaller,” she continued. “I don’t.”
Dad spoke quietly.
“You should have told us.”
“I know.”
“You should have told Joanna.”
“I know.”
“What happened to the box?” I asked.
Mom wiped her eyes.
“Years later, when we cleared the basement, I thought it was Denise’s. Her name was on most of the papers. Your father took it to her storage unit.”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“I remember the box.”
That was it.
No grand design.
No scheme.
A letter misplaced first by fear, then by life, then by time.
A lost choice.
Those can hurt as much as deliberate ones.
