She managed appointments.
She paid bills.
She answered letters.
She decided which visitors were welcome and which messages Evelyn received.
More dangerously, she had already told several relatives that I had suddenly appeared with a child and demanded money.
I had no intention of allowing her version of the story to become the permanent one.
I packed the returned letters, postal receipts, photographs, and copies of every message I had sent.
Emma waited by the door wearing her new boots.
“Will we be there long?”
“I hope not.”
Barry came with us.
When we entered Evelyn’s home, conversation stopped.
The room was filled with people who looked at me as though I were either an intruder or a curiosity.
Margaret stood immediately.
“What is she doing here?”
I placed the box of letters on the center table.
“I’m here because you have spent ten years telling people who I am without ever allowing me to speak.”
