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His hands tighten on the railing.

“That’s not the same story.”

He doesn’t answer.

“And your father knew.”

“Eventually.”

“He regretted what he said.”

“Apparently.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“I sent the letters back, Clara.”

“You were eighteen.”

“I wasn’t eighteen forever.”

“No.”

He looks at me.

I don’t rescue him from that either.

Maybe there were years when Ryder could have opened a letter.

Maybe his father could have gotten on a plane.

Maybe they both let anger become easier than fixing what was broken.

It doesn’t change what happened that night.

“You’ve been saying your father’s sentence to yourself for eighteen years.”

Ryder goes completely still.

“He said it once,” I continue. “You turned it into a life sentence.”

His laugh is short and bitter. “Cute librarian metaphor.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“I took it as one.”

His mouth almost moves then he looks back toward the mountains. “I’ve been the asshole who left for eighteen years.” I wait. “The bad son. The brother who fucked up. The guy who doesn’t come home.”

“Maybe that’s easier.”

His eyes cut to mine. “What?”