“Maeve?”
“Mom died this morning.”
Silence.
Then I heard her breathe.
“Oh, God.”
“The funeral is Friday.”
“I don’t think I can come.”
Normally, I would have immediately said I understood.
I would have ended the uncomfortable conversation.
This time, I didn’t.
“I want you there.”
“I can’t promise.”
“Then don’t promise. Just think about it.”
She didn’t come.
After the funeral, I stood at my desk staring at the brass key Raven had given me.
Tom watched.
“You’re going to put it away?”
“I was.”
“What changed?”
I closed my hand around it.
“I’m tired of protecting things instead of understanding them.”
We drove to Mom’s house.
I searched her desk.
Nothing.
Her sewing cabinet.
Nothing.
Finally, I went upstairs.
Behind several folded blankets in her bedroom closet sat a wooden box.
The brass key fit perfectly.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
Every one was addressed to Elaine.
Tom picked one up.
“Eleven years?”
I nodded.
“She wrote to her for eleven years.”
“But never sent them.”
My phone was already in my hand.
This time, I didn’t let myself hesitate.
I called Elaine.
When she answered, I said:
“I found something Mom spent eleven years hiding from both of us.”
Elaine arrived the following afternoon.
Tom let her inside and then deliberately gave us privacy.
I led her upstairs.
The moment Elaine saw the envelopes spread across Mom’s bed, she stopped.
“You found them?”
I turned.
“You knew?”
“Not those.”
She walked closer and picked up one of the birthday cards.
“I have a box too.”
I stared at her.
“A box of what?”
“Letters to Doris. Christmas cards. Birthday cards. Things I wrote but never mailed.”
“Why?”
Elaine looked down.
“Because every time I finished one, I imagined her sending it back unopened.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
“So the two of you spent eleven years writing to each other without ever actually speaking?”
Her mouth tightened.
“Apparently.”
I began sorting Mom’s cards by year.
Elaine watched me.
Then she suddenly asked:
“Do you remember when I called you five years ago on Doris’s birthday?”
My stomach tightened.
“You asked how she was.”
“I asked whether she ever talked about me.”
I already knew what was coming.
“What did you tell me, Maeve?”
I looked at her.
“Not really.”
Elaine’s eyes filled.
“Do you know what I heard when you said that?”
I didn’t answer.
“I heard that my sister had forgotten me.”
“Aunt Elaine…”
“Was it true?”
There was no easy answer anymore.
“No.”
She froze.
Mom had spoken about Elaine often.
She would see a sweater and say Elaine would love it.
She remembered birthdays.
She mentioned childhood stories.
She missed her sister.
Elaine swallowed hard.
“So when I asked if she ever mentioned me…”
“I gave you the easiest answer.”
“Why?”
“Because I was exhausted from feeling caught between you.”
Her face hardened.
“I wasn’t asking you to repair our relationship, Maeve.”
“I know that now.”
“You let me believe she was finished with me.”
“I did.”
Elaine stared at the pile of cards.
“I need to leave.”
“Aunt Elaine—”
“Not now.”
She walked out.
