My husband of 39 years always kept a locked cupboard in it – after his death, I paid a locksmith to open it, and I wish I hadn't.
"Why did you think you had to carry that all by yourself?"
The answer was right there, in the piles of paper. Thomas's parents may have thought they were protecting him (and perhaps they were), but above all, they had taught him to be ashamed.
He carried the burden of a brother he loved but couldn't claim. He helped a nephew whose mother needed assistance.
And he did all of this in secret.
The answer was there, in the piles of paper.
"Not anymore."
I copied the return address from one of Marilyn's letters.
It took me two days to find the courage to go to Marilyn's address.
It was a neat little house with a basketball hoop above the garage and a lawn to mow. A man in his thirties, wearing a work shirt, opened the door. He had Thomas's eyes.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
He had Thomas's eyes.
"I... are you Marilyn's son?"
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at the box in my arms, then at my face.
"Who's asking?"
I took a breath. "My name is Margaret. I was married to Thomas."
The man became completely still. "Uncle Tom?"
"Did you know about him?"
"I... are you Marilyn's son?"
He nodded slowly, stepping back to let me in. "Mom told me the truth when I turned 18. She told me he didn't want credit. He just wanted to make sure I could go to university and have a chance to succeed."
I gave a small, sad laugh. "That looks a lot like him."
The man's expression softened. "Actually, he came to my graduation. He was standing at the very back of the gym. Afterwards, he shook my hand and told me he was an old friend of my father's. I didn't realize who he was until Mom told me later."
"My mother told me the truth when I turned 18."
