I told the Highway Patrol not to release their names. I told the newspapers no comment. I put died in a car accident in the obituary and nothing else.
And when the letters started coming, I didn’t open them.
They came through the Highway Patrol at first. Forwarded. Then through a lawyer’s office in Kansas City. Thick envelopes. Law Offices of David Reyes.
I wrote REFUSED — RETURN TO SENDER on every single one and put them back in the mailbox.
Eleven letters. Over three years.
I never opened one.
I thought they were lawsuits. Or ambulance chasers. Or reporters. Or worse, I thought they were from the boy’s family. Wanting to thank me. Wanting to tell me what a beautiful thing my daughter did.
I didn’t want their thanks.
I wanted my daughter back.
“I wrote you letters,” Danny said quietly.
I looked up at him.
