After school the next day, he stopped at the library. He went to the section with newspapers and magazines and found that day’s local paper. The column his friend had mentioned was easy to spot. This week was about the daughter at eleven.
I remember the Christmas when you were eleven. For once, I kept the day clear and stayed home. Mom cooked. You kept checking under the tree all morning.
When I gave you your present, you opened it right there and jumped up when you saw what it was. I hardly remember what we talked about afterward.
Probably school. Your friends. We were home for three or four hours, doing nothing special. I remember that day anyway.
We didn’t go anywhere. We stayed home and talked. I wish I’d done that more often.
Below it was another handwritten letter.
To You at Twenty-Four
Happy twenty-fourth birthday.
Are you working now?
Or are you still in school?
If you’re working, what kind of job do you have?
Maybe it’s completely different from what you once imagined.
Where do you live now?
Are you still with Mom, or do you have a place of your own?
You were never good at mornings when you were little. If you’re working now, I wonder if you’ve learned to get up on time. Is there someone you love?
At twenty-four, I suppose it wouldn’t be strange if you were already thinking about marriage.
In my head, you’re still twelve, so that’s hard for me to picture.
Do you and Mom still talk a lot? I hope you’re healthy and doing all right, wherever you are. Happy birthday.
He finished the letter.
In the one written when she was fourteen, the father had said they would race again the next time they met. There was nothing like that here. He read the ending again, then folded the newspaper and put it back. From his bag, he took out a textbook and notebook.
He opened to the material for next week’s exam. He needed the course to graduate, and at his last meeting with the school counselor he had been warned not to fail it. He started studying.