Marcus took it. Read the return address. Olivia Hayes, Decator. Gay. When did this come?
Marcus said, 6 weeks ago. He looked at the old man. You haven't opened it? No. Why not?
Robert sat back down. He picked up his coffee mug, even though it was probably empty by now, and held it like a prop. Because if I open it and it says what I think it might say, "Then I have to do something about it. And if I do something about it, I might make it worse. And if I make it worse," stopped.
"If you make it worse, what? " The old veteran looked at him and for just a second behind the discipline and the stillness and the decades of training his face not to show anything. Marcus saw something raw there. Something a lot like fear. If I make it worse, Robert said quietly. Then there's no more road left.
You understand? That envelope is the last road. As long as it stays closed, there's still a chance. Marcus sat with that for a moment. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, held it carefully, like something that might be fragile.
"You know what? I've learned raising two daughters by myself," Marcus said. Robert looked at him. "They need their father to be brave, even when he doesn't feel brave, especially then. " He paused. "It's not about being perfect.
It's about showing up. That's it. That's the whole job. " Robert didn't answer right away. A car went by on the street. What if she's angry?
Robert said she might be. What if she doesn't want? She wrote to you, Marcus said. He held up the envelope. She wrote to you, Robert.
After years of nothing. She sat down and put a stamp on an envelope and mailed it to this address. You think angry people do that? Silence. Hurt people do, Robert said carefully.
Yeah, Marcus said. Hurt people do. And you know what else? Hurt people who still care enough to try. That's what this is.
He set the envelope down on the table between them. That's not a door closing. That's a door opening. Robert stared at the envelope for a long time. He did not pick it up.