I looked up at Amelia.
“What is this?”
Her voice broke.
“Oliver… there are dozens of these.”
She gestured toward the box.
“He’s been writing letters to Nora for years.”
I slowly looked through the box.
There were drawings from when Leo was very small.
Crayon pictures of a woman with curly hair.
Later drawings became more detailed.
Then came letters.
Dozens of them.
Some short.
Some long.
One said:
Mom, Dad worked late again today, but he still made pancakes for dinner.
Another read:
Dad helped me with my science project even though he didn’t understand it either.
Then one from a few months ago.
