He looked at it clearly, and he grieved it privately, and then he did the practical, protective, deeply loving thing: he built me a wall and hid it where I would find it only if I ever needed it.

He hoped I never would.

He said so in his letter.

But he built it anyway, because that was who Henry was, a man who hoped for the best and quietly prepared for the worst, and who loved me enough to protect me even from our own child, even from beyond his own grave.

I unfolded his letter.

Michael whispered, “Mom, don’t.” I read the relevant portion aloud to the court.

Margaret.