I came back from a business trip, and the first thing my seven-year-old son said was, “Don’t go into my room.” Of course, I went in anyway.

nodded.

“I won’t.”

After he left, Bennett leaned against me.

“Are you still angry?”

“A little.”

“At me?”

I kissed the top of his head.

“Never at you.”

He smiled with visible relief.

That night, we read one more of my mother’s letters together. Then I tucked Bennett into bed beside the wall that had kept her words hidden for so many years.

Sometimes, the things continue reading …