“She should.”
“She says we should judge people from what we see ourselves.”
I looked down.
“That sounds like her.”
Noah kicked a stone.
“Nathan hates you.”
“I know.”
“He probably won’t meet you.”
“I understand.”
“I didn’t say forever.”
Hope moved through me.
I forced myself not to grab it too quickly.
Noah continued.
“He keeps your letter in his desk.”
I looked at him.
“He says he doesn’t care.”
Noah smiled slightly.
“But he read it four times.”
I smiled too.
That afternoon lasted forty minutes.
Noah told me about school.
He told me about robotics.
He told me he hated mushrooms.
I learned my son hated mushrooms.
It was the most important information I had heard all month.
Before he left, he asked one question.
“Are you still rich?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
“Like billionaire rich?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
“I suppose.”
He looked serious.
