My father shouted: At Least The Army Pays Her Rent

turn.

“What?”

“Your letters.”

My heart struck once, hard.

“I thought you threw them away.”

“No.” His voice was rough. “I put them in a drawer. Then a box. Then storage. I told myself I didn’t care, but I kept them.”

The city lights blurred.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

But it mattered.

I hated that it mattered.

He reached into his jacket pocket and continue reading …