He thought I had stolen something from him—some secret piece of his mother’s heart, some last confession that should have been his. But what she’d shared with me was never meant to replace him; it was only a detour around the walls he’d built. Her letter was a quiet room where she could finally lay down the words that trembled on her tongue whenever he walked into the house and called it “fine.”

By the time his anger cracked, what spilled out was not accusation, but grief dressed as apology. He wasn’t mad she’d written to me; he was shattered that she hadn’t known how to reach him. I told him the only thing I knew for sure: love is not a theory to be sorted with the will. It’s a practice, and its only deadline is breath.