He handed it to me.
The paper had been folded so many times the corners were almost gone.
There were only a few sentences.
I won’t pretend they were some perfect movie speech.
They weren’t.
Walter basically told Reed that he was proud of him, that he was glad Reed had built a good life, and that he hoped Reed would eventually stop talking about his past as though it belonged to someone else.
The last line said:
You survived it. You don’t have to hide it.
I read that line twice.
“So you invited everyone from the shelter?”
“Not everyone. Just people I stayed in touch with.”
“And you were going to tell me before the ceremony.”
“Yes.”
“With a letter.”
He nodded.
“That’s cowardly.”
“I know.”
“Very cowardly.”
“I know.”
I sat beside him.
For the first time since the ceremony stopped, neither of us spoke.
