believing I knew everything important about her.
Apparently, I had been wrong.
But before I could ask another question, Claire reached into the oversized jacket and pulled out a small, yellowed envelope.
My grandfather’s handwriting was on the front.
For the man who finally asks why.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
My grandfather, Thomas, had died when I was twelve. He had been the kind of man who fixed broken things instead of throwing them away, who kept every birthday card he had ever received, and who
