I was not a good man in that March.

But I was a man who would have gotten on a plane for a son.

And it went in the wrong tray.

My therapist, who I started seeing in the February of that year, said something about that in about our ninth session that I have held onto.

She said: “You keep coming back to the mail room because it’s the only part of this that isn’t a choice, and a thing that isn’t anybody’s choice is much easier to grieve than the four minutes you spent changing an address.”

Part Thirteen: The Accounting