Even the teachers who had been whispering earlier were watching us.
Then Ethan looked back at me.
“Since I was twelve.”
My stomach dropped.
“Six years?”
He nodded.
“Six years.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know how.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I was afraid you’d tell me not to do it.”
“Do what?”
His eyes moved to the red dress.
“Keep the promise.”
I stared at him.
And suddenly everything from the last two weeks began falling into place.
The late-night conversations.
The secret phone calls.
The way he had spent hours alone in his room.
The way he had stared at that dress the first night he showed it to me.
I had thought he was trying to make a statement.
I had thought he wanted to challenge people.
I had thought he was angry at the world.
I had been wrong.
He wasn’t trying to make people look at him.
He was trying to make sure they looked.
There was a difference.
“Ethan,” I whispered, “tell me everything.”
He took a breath.
Then he sat down on the floor beside my chair.
Right there in the middle of the aisle.
In front of everyone.
And he began.
“Do you remember when I was little and you told me Dad had a brother?”
I nodded.
My husband’s younger brother.
A name we almost never spoke.
Not because we hated him.
Because saying his name hurt.
He had died before Ethan was born.
A sudden accident.
A young life ending before it had properly begun.
I had always told Ethan that his uncle had been kind.
Funny.
Stubborn.
Brave.
And that he loved red.
He loved ridiculous red shirts.
Red shoes.
Red jackets.
Anything that made people turn their heads.
But there was one detail I had never told Ethan.
One detail I had buried with the rest.
His uncle had once made a promise to me.
A promise about the child I was carrying.
A promise I thought had died with him.
Until that night in our kitchen.
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“He wrote it down, Mom.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The promise.”
My breathing stopped.
“In one of the letters.”
“What letter?”
“The one in the trunk.”