Later he told me he was protecting me from embarrassment because the men at the table were serious investors.

I had almost forgotten that evening, but my old handwriting brought back the exact sensation of smiling while my face burned.

In the margin I’d drawn a little window overlooking a garden, the first sketch of a project I later completed in Charlotte.

I considered showing the letter to Nathaniel.

Instead, I took it to a session with my counselor, who asked what I hoped sharing it might accomplish.

I admitted I wanted him to understand how small I had felt.