Every letter the woman wrote to him had been carefully preserved.
For a moment one terrible thought filled my mind.
Harold had another family.
I sat down on the cold garage floor and covered my mouth.
“Oh Harold,” I whispered.
I heard the sound of gravel outside.
The girl from the funeral stood in the doorway holding a bicycle.
“I thought you might come here,” she said.
“You followed me?”
She nodded without embarrassment.
“When Harold gave me the envelope, he said it was the most important thing I would ever do.”
I looked at her carefully.
“What’s your name?”
“Gini.”
“And your mother?”
“Virginia.”
The name echoed in my chest.
