“Probably.”

“You don’t have to give it to him.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m just saying.” He knocked twice on the doorframe, which is a thing he does. “You didn’t have to take the ninety-two thousand either.”

The letter is still in the drawer.

Some days I think I’ll open it when he’s eighteen and can read it with me, and some days I think it can sit there until the paper gives out.