“I know.”
She continued:
“He was wrong too.”
That surprised him.
“He should have called later.”
“He knew you had softened.”
“Other people told him.”
“But by then he was proud too.”
The Leader smiled sadly.
“My son.”
“Very much.”
They sat quietly.
The mother finally said:
“He did not hate you.”
The Leader looked toward her.
“How do you know?”
“Because before he died, he made me promise something.”
She pulled a folded envelope from her bag.
Old.
Edges worn.
The Leader stared.
“He wrote this after the diagnosis.”
“What diagnosis?”
The mother’s face changed.
The Leader understood.
His son had not died suddenly in an accident as he had assumed from limited records.
“He had cancer.”
The Leader went pale.
“Eighteen months.”
The mother continued.
“He told very few people.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“I wanted to.”
“He asked me not to.”
The Leader’s pain turned briefly toward anger.
She saw.
“He said if he called only because he was dying, you would never know whether he returned from love or fear.”
The Leader looked away.
“That sounds exactly like his stupidity.”
The mother smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
She held out the envelope.
“He said I should give this to you only if you ever found us without forcing your way into our lives.”
The Leader stared.
“What?”
“He was very specific.”
A laugh escaped her.
“He said, ‘If the old man ever learns to knock instead of kicking doors open, give him this.’”
The Leader laughed.
Then covered his face.
The mother placed the envelope between them.
He did not immediately touch it.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Wasn’t mine.”
The Leader picked it up.
His hands shook.
He opened it.
The first sentence destroyed him.
Dad, if you are reading this, you finally listened to somebody.
He laughed while crying.
The letter continued.
His son wrote about childhood.
The garage.
Motorcycles.
Arguments.
His wife.
His son.
He wrote that leaving had been necessary.
Staying away forever had not.
That part he regretted.
Then:
My boy loves machines.
His legs work differently, but his mind doesn’t care about that.
Do not turn him into a symbol.
Do not make him prove anything because of me.
If you ever meet him, ask what he likes before telling him who you think he should become.
The Leader stopped reading.
The mother looked away to give him privacy.
He continued.
And if he shows you the wing mark, it means he trusts you enough to share something I gave him.
Treat that trust like a tool someone placed in your hand.
Return it in better condition than you received it.
The final line:
I was angry.
I was also your son.
Both were true.
The Leader folded the letter.
For several minutes the only sound was highway traffic.
Then he said:
“He always wrote better than I did.”
The mother smiled.
“What will you do?”
He looked toward the diner window.
The boy was drawing instead of doing homework.
His mother noticed too.
She sighed.
“Probably engines.”
The Leader smiled.
“What will I do?”
He thought.