Richard stared at him.
He could speak again by then, though slowly.
“No,” he said.
The man leaned closer.
“What?”
“You didn’t.”
The cameras caught it.
People laughed awkwardly.
Richard did not.
Grace did not require rewriting history for the comfort of those who had been wrong.
PART ELEVEN — ANNE’S FINAL QUESTION
Evelyn Carter died in 2018.
She left Anne every letter she had written but never sent.
Hundreds.
The first began:
My daughter is six months old today.
The next:
I saw Richard carrying you into church.
Later:
You wore a yellow dress for your school concert.
Evelyn had watched from distances.
Parking lots.
Store aisles.
Church steps.
She knew Anne’s life without entering it.
Anne read the letters after Evelyn’s death and became furious all over again.
“She wanted credit for loving me silently,” she told Richard.
They sat on the porch.
Richard’s hands shook with age.
