Chapter 4: Our Mother’s Letter
Michael opened the recipe box and pulled out a folded envelope. My name and his were written across the front in our mother’s careful handwriting.
He handed it to me, but I pushed it back. “You read it.”
His voice shook as he began.
Our mother wrote that she had always known Michael caused the fire. She also knew I had protected him. What hurt her wasn’t the ruined kitchen; it was watching one son carry blame while the other carried shame.
She asked us not to make either burden our inheritance.
Michael stopped reading and covered his mouth. For years, I had imagined that he stayed away because family meant nothing to him. The truth was less simple. Shame had convinced him that returning would only expose what he had done.
That didn’t excuse everything. While I cared for our mother during her final illness, Michael called occasionally but rarely visited. After her funeral, I accused him of abandoning us. He accused me of acting like her only son.
We had both said things designed to wound.
“Why the pizza box?” I asked.
“Cowardice,” he admitted. “I wanted you to see the timer before I lost my nerve again.”
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