The note told me to go to the library on Ferrand Street, sit at the third table, and wait at two o’clock. It said to tell no one. It said he was sorry and would explain everything.I did not go alone. I was eighty-one, and a woman knows that a miracle after fifty-six years is more likely cruelty than a gift. I called my niece, who called the police, and an officer came with me and waited near the door. The man at the third table was not Theodore.
His name was Bertram. He was seventy-four, and he had been Desmond’s son. He carried a box containing dozens of letters, written in Theodore’s handwriting. They were letters to me from Vietnam, never sent, because Desmond had intercepted them. I looked at the envelope, and before I opened it, Bertram whispered the words that changed everything.
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