Chapter 16 - The Missing Letters
I followed.
The three of us ate at the small kitchen table.
Lily explained her cardboard city in great detail.
The bakery was run by a woman named Tina.
The library had too many books because, according to Lily, that was “better than not enough.”
The apartment building had a rooftop garden.
“And how much is the rent?” I asked.
Lily looked at me seriously.
“Not too much.”
Sarah covered a smile with her spoon.
I deserved that.
After dinner, we went downstairs.
The storage room was at the end of a narrow hallway near the laundry area.
Sarah unlocked a wire cage containing three old boxes, a lamp, a folded chair, and a suitcase.
“That’s everything?”
“Everything my mother left that I haven’t sorted.”
The first box contained holiday decorations.
The second contained recipe books and photographs.
The third was packed with papers.
We carried it upstairs.
Lily had gone to Mrs. Alvarez’s apartment to show her the cardboard city, which Sarah seemed comfortable with.
I sat on the floor beside the box.
Sarah handed me a stack of folders.
“We should probably have a system.”
“We’re looking for my father’s name.”
“That is a system.”
For nearly an hour, we found nothing.
Insurance documents.
Old utility bills.
Receipts.
A church directory.
Medical statements.
Then Sarah pulled out a bundle tied with faded blue ribbon.
She froze.
“What?”
She turned it over.
On the front was a small note in Evelyn’s handwriting.
For Margaret. Keep until she’s ready.
Sarah untied the ribbon.
Inside were envelopes.
Eleven of them.
Each one addressed to my mother.
Each one bore my father’s return address.
Different places.
Ohio.
Indiana.
Arizona.
California.
The dates stretched over nearly eight years.
My hands went cold.
“He kept writing.”
Sarah nodded.
I picked up the earliest letter.
It was sealed.
So was the next.
And the next.
All of them.
My mother had never opened them.
Or Evelyn had never given them to her.
I couldn’t tell which possibility bothered me more.
Sarah studied the small note.
“For Margaret. Keep until she’s ready.”
“She wasn’t ready.”
“Maybe.”
“Eight years?”
May you like
“We don’t know what happened.”
I disliked that answer because it was reasonable.
