“I tried.”
“When?”
“After the first year.”
“You had my number.”
“Your mother said it had changed.”
I stared at him.
“She told me your unit wouldn’t give out information. She said contacting you could get you in trouble.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“I know.”
His voice broke on the last word.
I wanted to feel only anger. It would have been easier. Anger had edges. It gave a person somewhere to stand.
But my father looked old and genuinely lost.
“How did you know?” I asked.
He rubbed his hands together.
“Mr. Greer came by.”
I turned toward the window. Through the glass, I could see the mailman standing beside his truck, speaking with one of the teachers.
“What did he tell you?”
“He asked why we kept refusing military mail.”
“And?”
“I told him we didn’t.”
My mother spoke from behind me.
“You told him nothing.”
My father looked at her. “You refused it.”
“I returned mail that wasn’t properly addressed.”
“Emily’s address was on every envelope.”
“You don’t know that.”
Mr. Greer appeared in the doorway.
“I do,” he said.
Everyone turned.
He held a small cardboard box against his chest.
His battered cap was still on his head, and his expression was solemn.
“I kept copies,” he said.
My mother stepped forward. “You had no right.”
“I had every right to remember what I delivered.”
“You went through my mail?”
“No. I recorded the envelopes after they came back through the system.”
He set the box on the entry table.
The lid was worn at the corners. A strip of masking tape held one side together.
“For four years,” he said, “I noticed letters with military postmarks being returned from this house. Sometimes your mother marked them refused.
