I don’t understand at first, not until we’re in the garden and Dad whispers, “I miss you so much, my son. I couldn’t say that word for a long time. It may only be three letters, but it’s the biggest word in the world.”

And then, even quieter and only to himself and to a boy I desperately hope is listening, Dad says, “I’m sorry.” Then he writes it and lays it on top of the first note.

When it’s my turn, I stay silent for a long time because I don’t know what to say. In my room, alone, I can talk to my brother for hours, but, with Dad watching, I feel scared to open my mouth. Eventually, I try something in my head, then out loud.

“I feel guilty every single day. I messed up. I made a mistake. But those are just words, and they’re not enough. What happened is bigger than words. I know this doesn’t change anything, but I am so…so sorry.”

Dad hands me the pen, and I write my apology, put it in the box, and close the lid. Then I watch him hook it on a tree Will never got to climb.

He would have loved it here. He would have worn himself out a million times, then begged for one more.

“No more secrets,” Dad says. “This is the place for us to come when we want to speak to your brother.”

“Even Mum?” I ask and my father sighs.

“She has somewhere else to go.”

“What do you mean?”

Dad doesn’t answer for a long time and, when he does, it looks like he’s fighting back the words that break through anyway.

When he’s finished, I hug him and say, “Thank you for telling me.”

“You can’t speak about this to anyone,” Dad whispers. “It’s all I have.”

I draw two invisible lines on my chest. “Cross my heart.”

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII

Tom is a nice surprise, but he’s also dangerous. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle with the middle missing. I could fill in the blanks for him, but then he’d look at me differently.

I could walk away, and, maybe, he’d forget me because that’s how school works. If you don’t speak to someone for enough days, eventually you’re replaced or forgotten or both. But I want to talk to him. I enjoy talking to him.

That feels strange after so many years of keeping quiet. I lost a part of myself when my brother died…we all did. But Tom is like an open hand, reaching out to who I was and who I might be, and, sometimes, I want to reach out my hand, too, and let him pull me back.