“Would you like to read it now?” I asked.

He handed it back.

“You should decide.”

Inside, he had tried to explain Rose, Violet, and the possibility that our daughter’s earliest records were connected.

The letter was clumsy and incomplete, full of apologies followed by frightened explanations.

But its last paragraph was startlingly clear: I do not know whether this changes anything.

I only know I should have trusted you with it.

I sat on the porch for an hour holding the paper.