“No,” I said. “He does not get to decide who belongs here.”
Eric looked at the chair for a long moment.
Then he slid over and sat beside me.
I looked at the envelope.
Before the doors opened, Eric reached into his briefcase and placed Nathan’s unopened letter to him on the table.
“I still haven’t read it,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because I know what he’ll ask me to forgive.”
I looked at the envelope.
I pushed the letter back toward him.
“Maybe he won’t.”
“He always wanted the ending before doing the work.”
It sounded so much like my own anger that I almost laughed.
I pushed the letter back toward him.
“You don’t have to read it today.”
He nodded and slipped the letter into his coat instead of putting it back in the briefcase.
Eric studied me.
“Did you read yours all at once?”
“No. I stopped three times.”
“Did it help?”
“It hurt differently each time.”
For once, neither of us allowed Nathan to set the pace.
He nodded and slipped the letter into his coat instead of putting it back in the briefcase.
It was a small change, but I noticed it.
For once, neither of us allowed Nathan to set the pace.
We sat in silence until Rosa switched on the lights, and the windows reflected three chairs together.
We left Nathan’s slice in the middle of the table.
Rosa unlocked the front door.
Families from the hospice began walking in.
We left Nathan’s slice in the middle of the table.
Rosa looked at the three chairs, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back carrying one more fork
