“I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing. You’re arriving.”
The distinction settled warmly in my chest.
I carried the box inside.
Mr. Greer’s home smelled of coffee, cedar, and the faint lavender scent of furniture polish. Family photographs covered one wall, but unlike my parents’ house, none had been removed. There were pictures of his wife, Margaret, at different ages; their two sons; grandchildren gathered around birthday cakes and Christmas trees.
He saw me looking.
“Margaret believed photographs were promises,” he said. “Proof that a moment happened, even after everyone forgot the details.”
I set the box on the dining table.
“Did she know about my letters?”
“She knew I was worried.”
“Did you ever tell her?”
“I told her enough.”
He filled two mugs and placed one beside me.
“Why did you keep track of the envelopes?”
He sat across from me.
“Because I delivered your mail for thirty years. People think a mail carrier only moves paper from one place to another. But after a while, you learn the rhythm of a household. Who receives birthday cards. Who gets medical bills. Who waits for checks. Who stops getting anything.”
He looked at the box.
“Your letters stood out. Military postmarks. Your name. Returned unopened. Then your mother began telling people you were in prison.”
“How did you know she was lying?”
“I didn’t, at first.”
“You believed her?”
“I believed she was afraid of something. That isn’t the same as believing her story.”
He leaned back.
“Your grandmother was one of the first people on my route. She used to leave a biscuit for my dog during winter. After she died, I delivered the estate notices to your parents. I knew she had left something to you.”
“She left me money for school.”
“She told me once that you were the only one in the family who understood what that money was for.”
I looked at the envelope.
“What else did she say?”
“That she hoped you wouldn’t let anyone make you feel guilty for wanting a future.”
My eyes stung.
I had forgotten that conversation.
Or perhaps I had tried to.
My grandmother had said those words on her back porch during the summer before she died. I was nineteen, frustrated with college applications and my parents’ constant arguments about money.
“You’re allowed to want more than survival,” she had told me.
At the time, I thought she was talking about school.
Maybe she had been talking about everything.
“I need to see my father,” I said.
Mr. Greer checked the clock. It was after ten.
“He may not be ready.”
“I’m not asking him to be ready.”
He gave me the truck keys.
“I’ll take you.”
“I can drive.”
“I know.”
He stood, then paused beside the table.
“Emily, if the letter was opened and resealed, your father may not be the only person who knows about it.”
