He did not truly want the contents of her message. He wanted the reason she had never spoken those words to him. His outrage clung to that absence with the intensity of a guard dog, snarling at every imagined betrayal. Grief often does this. It strips anger down to its most fragile form until all that remains is fear. When the storm inside him finally softened, I saw what lay beneath. He was not angry at her, not exactly. He was terrified that he had been loved in the wrong way, or not loved enough, or loved too late for it to matter. Loss reshapes the past with painful precision. Every moment that once felt ordinary suddenly becomes evidence, and every silence grows heavier than any spoken confession.
I told him the truth as gently as I could. His mother had not chosen me over him. She had chosen the only path her fear permitted. The letter he held was not a hidden treasure meant to be passed through hands in secrecy. It was a rehearsal. It was the closest she came to the words she wished she could offer him directly. She wrote it for him, yet she practiced with me because she could not risk watching his face change or watching her own voice fail. Her heart carried more love than she ever managed to articulate, but her courage had limits she never overcame.
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