Hey, Aunt Mae. It's me. I finally went through your attic, like you asked me to before you left.
Found a box of letters, every one I ever sent you, tied with kitchen twine. Underneath was a set of shower curtain rings, coral pink—wrong for any room you had, but you kept them because I gave them to you one Christmas.
I unfolded the oldest ones. Handwriting shaky, paper thin. I was a different man then. Broke, scared, raising three kids alone on a deckhand's pay out here in the exurbs.
I remembered what you told me about Mr. Hendricks, our school janitor. You said he taught me how to show up even when nobody clapped. I guess you saw something I didn't.
The letters talked about quitting. About not being enough. About how far the bus stop was from the marina. But I never quit. I kept writing you, kept going, kept becoming.
Now I'm seventy. Kids are gone. Still on the tugboat, still driving those long miles. And I see now that who I was when nobody was watching—that's the person you were writing back to all along.
I don't need to say goodbye. I just wanted you to know I finally saw myself the way you did. The attic's empty now, but I think you knew it would be.