Chapter 7

Mara read the letters that night.

She sat at the kitchen table of her apartment, a small place with a thin window and a radiator that clicked, and she opened the first envelope carefully, using the edge of an envelope opener, the way you handle something that has been waiting twenty-four years to arrive.

The paper was old. The ink had faded. Her father's handwriting was neat, careful, the handwriting of a man who was writing something important.

*Dear Desmond,*

*I'm writing to you because I don't know who else to write to. I've been gone a year now, and I want you to know I'm sorry. Not for leaving — I would leave again. I fell in love with a woman who is worth more than the whole family, and I would do it again if I had the chance. But I'm sorry for the way it happened. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell you that you were a good brother while I had one.*

*I think about you often. I think about the time we built the treehouse in the back yard, and you let me take the top bunk even though you were older. I think about the summer we worked at the hotel, and you covered my shift when I was sick, and you never told anyone. I think about the way you laughed when I told you I loved a waitress and you said you were happy for me.*

*I hope you're well. I hope you're happy. I hope you're the brother I remember.*

*Your brother, Owen*

Mara read the first letter.