Eli exhaled slowly. “Because this was always her night. And because she asked me to wait until I could show you something.”
I swallowed. “Show me what?”
“She wrote this for you,” he said. “Months ago. She gave it to me for safekeeping.”
My heart skipped. “She wrote me letters. Why wouldn’t she just give it to me herself?”
“She said some things are easier to hear from someone else,” he replied gently.
My hands trembled as I took the paper. I recognized her handwriting instantly. Careful, looping letters, each word given space to breathe.
I didn’t read it yet. I couldn’t. Instead, I looked back up at him. “You said you got help. How?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the spinning dryers. “Your mom never treated me like a project. That’s what made the difference. She asked questions, but she listened more than she talked.”
He explained that one year, she brought more than dinner. She brought a list. Phone numbers. Community programs. A counseling center that specialized in trauma. A job training workshop run out of a church basement.
“She told me I didn’t have to call any of them,” he said. “She just wanted me to know they existed.” Continue reading…
