Graham almost laughed.
“You enjoy leaving things unfinished.”
“I learned from your family.”
He did laugh then.
The first genuine laugh since returning.
Lila smiled.
That evening she told him his mother had once learned approximately where he lived.
Two years earlier.
A cattle buyer.
Rawlins.
Horse outfit.
Enough information to begin.
“She knew?”
“Yes.”
“And did nothing.”
“Yes.”
Graham stood from the table.
Lila added:
“You knew too.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“A traveler passed through here.”
“Mentioned you heard a widow named Alder still kept the place.”
Graham looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“Your mother told me.”
His anger arrived automatically.
Then died before reaching words.
Because it was true.
He had known.
Not exactly.
But enough.
The buyer had mentioned Juniper Bend.
Mentioned a widow.
Graham had asked no questions.
Months later another southbound man had offered to carry word.
Graham said no.
Lila watched recognition move across his face.
“She wronged me first.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
“I was the son.”
“Yes.”
“She was the mother.”
“Yes.”
His voice sharpened.
“Stop agreeing with me.”
Lila almost smiled.
“You are making valid points.”
Graham looked toward the window.
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing tonight.”
“Damn it, Lila.”
She stood.
“I'm saying two things can both be true.”
“Your mother took a choice that belonged to you.”
“And later, when there was distance between you, neither of you crossed it.”
“Those are not equal wrongs.”
“I never said they were.”
Silence.
Graham breathed out.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Precision.”
“You need it.”
“Yes.”
He hated admitting that.
Days passed.
They sorted the house.
Receipts.
Tools.
Clothes.
His mother's Bible.
His father's tobacco tin.
Nothing extraordinary.
That made grief stranger.
Then they opened the desk.
Near the bottom lay an envelope.
His name.
Graham.
One page.
Dear Graham,
Nothing else.
The entire page blank.
The fold had been opened so many times the paper had softened.
Graham stared.
“She started.”
Lila looked.
“Yes.”
“More than once.”
Graham ran his thumb over the fold.
“Why couldn't she finish?”
Lila did not answer.
“Say something.”
“I don't know.”
“You always have something.”
“Not for this.”
He looked at her.
Her eyes were wet.
That surprised him.
“You loved her.”
Lila swallowed.
“Yes.”
Graham looked back at the blank letter.
“So did I.”
The admission barely existed above breath.