And pulled out a second envelope.
This one was old.
Yellowed.
My breath caught.
I knew that envelope.
I had written Clare dozens of letters during my first years away.
Birthday cards.
Christmas cards.
Letters from training.
Letters from bases in places she had never heard of.
None had ever received a reply.
Eventually, I stopped writing.
Clare held up the envelope.
“This was addressed to me when I was sixteen.”
I looked at Dad.
His face changed.
Clare saw it.
“So you recognize it.”
“Clare,” he said.
Margaret reached for his wrist.
He pulled away.
Clare opened the envelope.
“I found forty-three of these three months ago.”
The room seemed to contract.
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Clare’s eyes filled.
“In Dad’s storage room.”
I stared at her.
“Forty-three?”
She nodded.
“All unopened.”
The ballroom vanished.
For years, I had believed Clare had chosen them.
That after I left, she had decided answering me wasn’t worth the fight.
