Sophie opened hers next, reluctantly, like she was lifting the lid on something that might bite.
It was packed with envelopes. Twenty-one of them, bundled with twine. One for every birthday, including this one. None had stamps. None had ever been mailed.
Tucked underneath was a small card printed with a safe-deposit box number.
Claire opened hers last.
Inside was a small brass key.
We laid the three things side by side on the kitchen table and stared at them.
A bank. A box number. A key.
Now her condition made sense. Alone, each gift was useless. Together, they opened a door.
The next morning, the four of us drove downtown.
The Letter That Wasn’t Mine
Inside the safe-deposit box was another envelope, this one addressed to the girls.
Claire unfolded it and read aloud, her voice careful.
“If you’ve made it this far, you know I saved money for you. Please do not confuse that with being your mother. Your father did that job. All of it.”
