One line read:
“Tommy assumes Mom will catch him when he falls.”
Then:
“Partly because she always has.”
And finally:
“Need to make sure he learns help must be asked for, not taken.”
My throat tightened.
Then I found another line.
“I keep telling him the house will be his someday. Probably should stop.”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
The final sentence read:
“Dorothy may need it before he does.”
I showed the notebook to Tommy.
He read it silently.
“Dad knew,” he whispered.
“Eventually.”
He looked at me.
“Do you think he’d hate me?”
“No,” I answered immediately. “He’d be furious. And he would still love you.”
Both things could be true.
Years later, Tommy completed every dollar of restitution required by the agreement.
His final payment came with a short note:
“This does not fix it. I know.”
I wrote back:
“No. But finishing matters.”
