Is it random how things you’ve buried come to the surface just when you have nearly forgotten they existed?
I rummaged through a time capsule of a plastic file, looking for documents to take to the attorney. Because all three kids were inching towards their thirties, and one beyond, even, it was time to update my will.
The letter slid out of an innocuous 9" X 13" white envelope; two pages, a page and a half of single-line printed text, pressed in a crisp, deliberate half-fold that successfully blanked its existence from my mind.
It was the last thing I wanted when he handed it to me. My heart had shriveled, like the Grinch, into a tiny green lima bean. I didn’t care what it said. “Too little, too late,” my ego hissed inside my skull. “We are done.”
With that, my eyes blurred over. I could not read a word of it.