Dylan placed a new envelope into my hands and said, “This one is for them. For whenever they’re ready.”
I looked down at the plain white envelope. No date. No name on the front. Just sealed and waiting.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A letter,” he said. “From both of us. I started it last week. I want us to finish it together today.”
We sat at the kitchen table with the morning light coming through the window. Dylan pulled out a second sheet of paper already half filled with his handwriting.
“I wrote about the early years,” he said. “The parts I used to be ashamed of. I want them to know the truth when they’re old enough to understand it.”
I read the first lines. His words were plain and honest. He admitted the way he had spoken to me after the coma. He admitted the fear that had made him c
