“What letters?”
I turned and walked into my bedroom.
At the back of the closet was an old cardboard box I had carried through every move.
Inside were copies of my letters, postal receipts, returned envelopes, birthday cards, and photographs of Emma from every stage of her life.
Her first smile.
Her first day of school.
Her missing front teeth.
Her eighth birthday.
Every envelope bore Evelyn’s address.
I carried the box outside and dropped it at Margaret’s feet.
“I wrote every year.”
Margaret barely looked at it.
“These could have been prepared recently.”
Barry reached inside his coat and removed several yellowed envelopes.
“I found these hidden in your desk.”
Evelyn stared at him.
Barry continued.
“Margaret kept a few of Rachel’s letters. She sent the rest back unopened. When I discovered them, she fired me.”
He looked down at Gypsy.
“My housing came with my job. When I lost one, I lost the other.”
