PART 3   I stared at the hospital bracelet in the lunchbox until the letters of my own name blurred.

Because something had been restored that I once thought was impossible.

On my thirty-fifth birthday, Walter gave me a wooden box.

He had made it himself.

The corners were smooth. The lid fit perfectly. My initials were carved into the top.

Inside was a letter.

Avery,

I have written you many cards I had no right to send.

This one I am sending because you gave continue reading …