“Oliver… do you realize what this means?”
I looked at the letters again.
Leo had been writing to his mother for twelve years.
Sharing his life.
Sharing our life.
He wasn’t hiding something terrible.
He had been protecting something sacred.
Just then, a quiet voice came from the doorway.
“Dad?”
We both turned.
Leo stood there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes.
He had clearly woken up and noticed the light in our room.
Then his gaze dropped to the wooden box.
His face froze.
“Did… did you open it?” he asked quietly.
I stood up slowly.
“Yes,” I said gently.
He looked down, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to think it was weird.”
My chest tightened.
“Why would you hide this from me?”
Leo hesitated before answering.
“I didn’t want to make you sad.”
Those words hit harder than anything else.
He had been carrying that worry alone.
I walked over and knelt in front of him.
“Leo,” I said softly, “nothing about this makes me sad.”
He looked up, uncertain.
“It doesn’t?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I placed my hand on his shoulder.
“It shows me how much you loved your mom.”
His eyes glistened.
