She took me to a small empty room. I sat at the table, staring at the envelope, afraid of what it might give me and what it might take away.
Finally, I opened it.
The second I saw his handwriting, my chest ached.
“Mom, I knew this letter would reach you if something happened to me. You need to know the truth. The truth about Dad and what has been going on these past few years…”
I stopped breathing.
The letter told me not to confront Charlie first. It told me to follow him. To see something with my own eyes. Then, afterward, to go home and check beneath the loose tile under the small table in Owen’s room.
No explanation.
Just a path.
For the first time since the funeral, doubt entered the room wearing my son’s handwriting.
I drove to Charlie’s office and parked across the street.
Then I texted him.
“What do you want for dinner?”
Three minutes later, he replied.
“Late meeting. Don’t wait up. I’ll grab something out.”
My stomach twisted.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie walked out of the office carrying only his keys. I followed him.
The drive took nearly forty minutes. Then he pulled into the parking lot of the children’s hospital—the same hospital where Owen had received treatment.
Charlie opened his trunk, took out bags and boxes, and went inside.
I followed at a distance.
He moved through the halls like someone who knew exactly where he was going. A nurse smiled when she saw him. He slipped into a supply room and closed the door.
Through the small window, I watched my husband change into bright suspenders, a ridiculous checkered coat, and a red clown nose.
I stared.
