answering harder.”
I recognized the pattern. Dad had hoped Derek would resolve things without speaking; Derek had tried to secretly repay borrowed money; Dad himself had avoided answering Luis for decades. Every passing year made an apology harder.
“Do you know where Luis is?” I asked. Mom went to the hallway telephone desk and retrieved a letter hidden behind old warranties. Dad stared.
“You kept that?”
“Of course I kept it.”
It carried a Santa Fe, New Mexico, postmark from seven years earlier and Luis Ruiz’s return address. Dad couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Your mother saves everything.”
“Things become history because women like me refuse to throw them away,” Mom replied. The enclosed Christmas card offered Manuel a chance, if any time remained, to become brothers again, and promised that Luis could be reached at the return address. I looked toward Dad.
“Seven years.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever write
