Chapter 4 - THE BOX
Frank called three days later.
“I want to give you the letters.”
Andrew said no meeting with Emily.
Frank agreed immediately.
That surprised me.
We met at a lawyer’s office instead.
Not because I wanted war.
Because children make adults careless about boundaries.
The box was blue.
Ordinary storage box.
Seven bundles tied with string.
One for each year.
FIRST BIRTHDAY.
SECOND.
THIRD.
Each envelope addressed only:
To Emily’s Family.
Diane had never known our names.
Frank sat across from us.
“I told her I mailed them.”
Andrew stared.
“And when she asked why we didn’t reply?”
“I said you wanted the adoption closed.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“Why?”
Frank looked at his hands.
“Because she was finally functioning again.”
“That doesn’t answer anything,” I said.
“She was nineteen when she had Emily. She was depressed. She was terrified. After the adoption she barely got out of bed.”
“Then she wanted contact.”
“Yes.”
“So you took it.”
“I thought if the letters came back—”
“You never let us choose.”
He flinched.
Andrew asked:
“Did you read them?”
“Yes.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
That disgusted me more than I expected.
Private words from a mother to a child.
Consumed by the man blocking them.
“Does Diane know you have the letters?”
“No.”
“Does she know you met us?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
Frank looked away.
“Seattle.”
May you like
Forty miles.
For seven years, Diane had lived less than an hour from Emily.
