There was a check in the envelope. A big one. And a printout from the bank showing a monthly transfer he’d already set up, starting that week, into a savings account in Evelyn’s name.
I put the letter in my dresser drawer and didn’t answer it.
The next week, another letter came. And then another.
He never asked to see her. He never asked me to come back. He just wrote. He told me he’d started seeing a therapist twice a week. He told me he’d gone to a support group for men who’d survived cancer when they were young, and that he’d sat in a circle of folding chairs and said out loud, for the very first time in eleven years, “I was told I couldn’t have children, and I was so ashamed of it that I lied to my wife for six years.”
