And the letter — the four pages in blue ink, dated the twenty-fourth of November — is in a folder in a fire safe in my apartment, and Leo does not know it exists.

He will.

Jessi and I have agreed that he gets it at eighteen, and that he gets all of it at eighteen: the envelope with the return marking, my mother’s handwriting on the back, the certified receipt from a mail room in Kentucky, and the fourteen pages I wrote in that January with my own list on it.

Not a curated version.

The documents, in a box, with both of us in the house and neither of us in the room.