photographs arranged across her dining-room table.
She looked at me for a long moment when we arrived.
“You have his eyes,” she said.
“Thomas’s?”
“Both of them. Thomas and Daniel.”
She smiled sadly.
“My father would have liked to meet you.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Margaret showed us the letters her father had saved. Some were angry. Some were apologetic. Most were ordinary.
Thomas had written about a leaking roof, a job he disliked, and a neighbor’s dog that kept escaping into the garden. Daniel had written about
