He had drawn a truck beneath his name, though its wheels were larger than the body.

Later letters were harder to read.

At thirteen, Daniel wrote about hating how tired I looked and wishing we had a bigger house.

At seventeen, he apologized for breaking a neighbor’s window and promised to pay for it with his grocery-store earnings.

At twenty-five, after his first promotion, he thanked me for teaching him to keep his word.

There it was again: a whole person, not only the man who had frightened me in the kitchen.

I allowed myself to love the child in those letters without allowing them to excuse the adult.