In June, a letter came to the office. It was addressed to me in handwriting I recognized, and I opened it at my desk with the door closed.
It was from Daniel. Two pages. He wrote that he was living in Wren Harbor and working for a boatyard, which I did not believe, and that Evelyn had sold the house and moved away with the boy, which I did. He wrote that he had made a mistake and that he was sorry, and that he wanted to talk. He wrote that he missed me.
I read it twice. The first time I was angry. The second time I was tired.
He had not written a single word about the scholarship fund. He had not written about the girls whose grants had been cut. He had not written about the donors who had left. He had written about himself, and about missing me, as though the eleven years had been a lo
