PART 2
I sat Noah down on the porch steps, put the lunchbox between us, and read the letter out loud, because my hands were shaking too and reading things out loud makes them real.
“Dear Noah,
You don’t know me. My name is Walter. I’m an old man who lives at the end of your street, in the gray house with the closed curtains. You’ve probably never seen me. I make sure of that.
For two years I have watched a little boy sit beside a stroller and draw pictures for a little girl that most people don’t slow down for.
I have watched you bring her weeds like they were roses.
Two days ago I watched you give her a red dress that I later learned cost you a month of lunches.
I need to tell you something, and I need to tell your mother, and through her, I need to tell Rachel, because I have been a coward for nine years and a little boy just shamed me out of it.
Lucy is my granddaughter.
Her father — my son, Daniel — is the reason Rachel raises her alone.
Please keep reading. Bring your mother. It’s time.”
I looked up.
Noah’s eyes were huge.
“Grandpa Walter?” he whispered — because of course Noah, who talks to everyone, was the one child on the street who had waved at the gray house with the closed curtains.
I kept reading.
“Nine years ago, my son Daniel got a young woman named Rachel pregnant. When the tests showed the baby would have Down syndrome, Daniel panicked. He was weak — I raised him weak, and that is my fault — and he left. He signed away his rights and moved across the country and told himself it was the responsible thing.
I was so angry and so ashamed of him that I did the second most cowardly thing in this story.
I said nothing.
