CHAPTER 5: Chapter 6 - The Box of Letters

Later, Michael drove Evelyn home himself. She lived in a narrow apartment above a laundromat, near the river. The staircase smelled faintly of soap and old wood. He moved slowly behind her, noticing how carefully she held the rail.
"I can get you a better place," he said.
"I have a place."
"Mom."
The word stopped them both. He had said it in the ballroom, but this time there was no audience. Only a stairwell and two people learning how to stand near each other.
Inside, the apartment was clean and spare. A kettle. Two mugs. A small table. On the wall was a framed newspaper photo of Michael at seventeen, winning a scholarship.
He stared at it.
Evelyn brought out a blue shoebox tied with string. She placed it on the table like evidence.
"I didn't know whether to keep them," she said. "But throwing them away felt like leaving you twice."
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Some addressed to houses, some to schools, some to the corporate headquarters that now bore his name.
He opened one from his tenth birthday. Her handwriting was careful.
I hope someone remembered you hate raisins in cake.
Michael sat down. The letter blurred. He pressed a hand to his eyes, to hold himself together.
Evelyn stood beside the table, frightened by his silence.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked up. "You loved me the whole time."
"Every day."