I did.”
“You don’t have to be sure.”
I studied his face.
“Did my mother love you?”
His eyes filled, but he did not look away.
“Yes.”
“Did she hate you?”
“Yes.”
The honesty unsettled me.
“She loved me,” he continued. “And she believed I had betrayed her. Both things were true.”
I looked at the falling snow.
“She was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“Are you still?”
“Yes.”
The answer was so human that I almost smiled.
Samuel glanced at the box in my arms.
“Did you find her letter?”
