Not send a letter.

Not force anything.

“I am going,” he said, “because I am the one who owes him a lifelong explanation.” He went.

And when he came home, alone and quiet, and I did not dare ask, it was he who told me, the next morning, watching Theodore toddle along the coffee table.

“His first reaction,” Raymond said, with a soft and wondering smile, “was to slam the door in my face.” My heart sank.

“But do not be sorry,” he went on.