So I opened the first envelope.
The paper inside was brittle.
Dad did not stop me.
Gus,
I saw the house today. It has white siding and a porch too small for the chairs you bought. You looked happy. I hope you are.
I am sorry I cannot be the person I promised.
Mara
There was no date.
The next letter was longer.
Then another.
Some were unopened.
“Why didn’t you read these?”
“Some I did.”
“And the others?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It made sense then.”
He stood and carried his mug to the sink.
“Dad, was Mom married before you?”
“No.”
“Was she running from someone?”
He looked out the window.
“Not someone.”
“What, then?”
“A mistake.”
I waited.
He did not elaborate.
I picked up another envelope.
The postmark read 1969.
By then Dad would have been twenty-two.
Mom—or Mara—twenty.
