Good old Keith. Since the incident, he had—he had not been doing well. At night, sometimes she’d hear him crying in the pantry. And this week he’d been passed over at work again. People just—they didn’t respect him. At the office Christmas party, everyone kept talking over him. There’d been some kind of running joke about everyone funneling the least desirable projects to Keith and Keith cluelessly accepting. He’d just sat there, fingering a poinsettia leaf that had fallen off the centerpiece. No one even seemed to notice that they were hurting his feelings.

Sweet guy. Weak guy.

Her weak, sweet guy.

This limping info?

Was dying with her, here and now.

She was going to have to be kind of a sin-eater on this one.

What she had to do was go in there, say nothing. About the limp. Be cheerful, be happy. Make the Christmas cookies. As planned. At every turn, all evening, fight the urge to tell him. Tomorrow, when, again, she felt the urge, remind herself that she had decided, here in the car, for the good of the family, not to tell him. Ever. Next day, same thing. With each passing day, the desire to tell him would diminish. And one day soon, she’d get through the whole day without even thinking of telling him.

And that would be that.

She just had to start the process.

On the passenger seat was a plastic bag. In the bag: a roll of parchment paper, a thing of sprinkles, three new cookie cutters. What she had to do now was reach over, pick up the bag, open the car door, drop one foot into the gray slush.

That, she could do.

That was something good she could actually do.

Love Letter

LOVE LETTER

February 22, 202_.

Dear Robbie,

Got your email, kid. Sorry for handwriting in reply. Not sure emailing is the best move, considering the topic, but, of course (you being nearly six foot now, your mother says), that’s up to you, dear, although, you know: strange times.

Beautiful day here. Family of deer just now raced past and your grandmother and I, out on the deck, holding the bright blue mugs you kindly sent at Christmas, did simultaneous hip swivels as they sprang off toward Seascape and, I expect, an easy meal on the golf course there.

Forgive my use of initials in what follows. Would not wish to cause further difficulties for G., M., or J. (good folks all, we very much enjoyed meeting them when you stopped by over Easter) should this get sidetracked and read by someone other than you.