And even if I’m not, I’m alone.
At least I can cover my face and scream.
Holding my breath, I slide a nail under the sealed flap before I can overthink it. The lake ripples out the window as the paper tears.
This must’ve been written close to his death, judging by the shakiness of his handwriting. The thought makes my eyes sting, but I blink the tears away.
My eyes flick over the first few words.
I can almost hear the fondness in his voice, the same gentle tone he’d use with me. Ethan used to tease me that the girls were his favorite, but like Cleo and Hattie, I was just less complicated.
Less trouble in my teen years than the overgrown punk Ethan turned into.
Dearest May,
By the time you read this, I’ll be dead, and you’ll be grieving me, if I should be so lucky.
Please don’t mourn too long. There’s only so much life to live, and there’s a hard limit on wasted tears, especially for a worn-out old man.
You cannot waste time. I know that better than anyone.
The truth is, while I’ve accomplished many wonderful things, there are other sins I’m less proud of. Many sins.
By now, perhaps you know a few.
Others, I’ve kept closer, hidden away from troubling you and Ethan. In his case, more than I already have.
There’s nothing quite like regret, dearest Margot.
It’s a corrosion on the soul, and in time, it will rust your heart shut.
You don’t realize it’s there at first. Not in the cruel hours ruminating, chewing endless what-ifs. But it builds.
It builds and devours until all you’re left with is a pile of dust.
My life was filled with too many regrets I failed to bury.
No great success ever came without a destructive ego.
My life was a balancing act, and I’m sorry to say I rarely found a way to even the scales.
I never had the time to find the right footing. A hundred more years couldn’t have helped me recover the right shoes.
You and Ethan and Cleo, you’re better than me. And I’m prouder of you all than you’ll ever know, but more worried than you can fathom.
It’s too easy to fall down the same pit I did.
Now that I’m gone, I hope you’ll find the path I tried to walk, buried on this land. I hope you’ll trust me for one last scavenger hunt, just like the ones you and Hattie adored.
Find what I’ve left behind. Use it as a lesson.
Let it be your compass, your muse, and the first step on a journey of a thousand miles.
Let it sing the only truth that ever mattered.
Let it be my final judgment—but only after you’ve walked in my shoes.
Your foolish old PopPop
