THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open whenever you're ready

I don't have the right words. I've started this letter six times. So I'm going to stop trying to find the right words and just write the true ones.

I'm so sorry.

Your dad was kind to me every single time I came over, from the time we were twelve. He called me kiddo until I was thirty. He fixed my bike chain in your driveway without being asked, and he never once mentioned the time I broke your porch light with a softball. I know he knew. He just let it go.

I keep thinking about the way he looked at you at your wedding, during the dance. Like he couldn't believe his luck.

You don't have to write back. You don't have to call. You don't have to be okay at the grocery store or at work or with me. Grief doesn't have a schedule, and nobody gets to tell you how long it's supposed to take.

Here's what I'm going to do, and you can't stop me. I'm going to drop off dinner on Tuesday. I'll leave it on the step and text you, and you never have to open the door. And I'm going to keep checking in, next week and next month and in March, when everyone else has gone back to normal.

I'm not going anywhere.

Love, Megan

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