She told us about the day Ruth was born.
She remembered the tiny sound her daughter made. She remembered a nurse briefly placing the baby near her shoulder. She remembered counting Ruth’s fingers before someone carried her away.
She told Owen about the birthday cards she had written but never mailed.
“I bought one every year,” she said. “I kept them in a box because I didn’t know where to send them.”
Owen found the box in the attic.
There were cards for Ruth’s first birthday, her tenth, her sixteenth, her twenty-first, and every year after.
Some contained only a few lines. Others held pages of apologies, hopes, and love.
Owen read every one.
Sometimes he asked questions.
Sometimes he sat silently beside Marjorie’s bed, holding a photograph of his mother.
Other times he left the room because his grief had become too heavy to hide.
