“Yes,” she said.
“I hear it.”
I asked the question that had been on my mind for as long as I could remember.
I started pacing back and forth.
“When I was six, I snuck into the orphanage’s archives room and found my file. All he gave me was a picture of you, your name, and your address. That night, I wrote that I had a fever and wanted you to be there. At ten, I asked if I looked like you at my age. At sixteen, I wrote that I didn’t need you anymore, then I wrote it again the next day because I felt guilty.”
She closed her eyes.
“I remember that one,” she whispered.
“Of course you remember.”
“I was 20 years old when I had you.”
Finally, I asked the question that had been on my mind for as long as I could remember.
” For what ? ”
She took a breath.
“I was 20 when I had you. No real family. No money. No one stable. After you were born, people kept telling me you’d be better off without me, that if I truly loved you, I would let someone else give you the life I couldn’t.”
She ran her hand through her hair before continuing.
She looked at the letters.
“I believed them because I was scared, and when you’re that young, fear can look a lot like caution. Then a year went by, then two, then more. Every year I stayed away, it became harder and harder to imagine how I could come back, and harder and harder to imagine that you would want me to.”
“So you observed from a distance.”
She looked at the letters.
” Yes. ”
“That’s not motherhood. That’s not family.”
Some envelopes were still sealed.
“No,” she said.
“It is not.”
This response hit harder than an apology ever would have.
I brought another package closer.
Some envelopes were still sealed.
One of them was three years old.
I held up the most recent letter.
Another one from last year.
Another one from this week, my last one.
“Why are these envelopes not opened?” I asked.
She looked surprised.
“I wasn’t home for a while. I had surgery and moved into an assisted living facility. A neighbor collected my mail. I came back to clear out the place because the house is up for sale.”
She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat.
I held up the most recent letter.
“When did you read it?”
“Yesterday morning.”
She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat.
“I replied the same day. It was the letter the courier was bringing.”
I didn’t touch her.
Beneath the anger, something else continued to grow.
She glanced towards the courtyard, where Nate and Emma were moving in the late light.
“When I read ‘This is my last letter,’ I knew that if I remained silent one more time, I would remain silent forever.”
I sat down slowly.
“Words are not enough.”
” I know.
“This box is not enough.”
She had kept them.
” I know. ”
Beneath the anger, something else continued to grow.
She had kept them.
She had kept a part of me.
“Do you have anything else?” I asked.
“Proof that it wasn’t just guilt?”
She nodded, went into the hall and brought back a cloth bag filled with cheap notebooks.
