Harlan and I remained near the mural.
For a moment we said nothing.
Then he reached into his jacket.
“Before you accuse me of giving you money—”
“I was about to.”
“It’s a letter.”
He handed me an envelope.
My name was written on it.
Not in my mother’s handwriting.
Eleanor’s.
I looked at him.
“Where did you find this?”
“My mother’s personal archive.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
I stared.
“You had a letter addressed to me for six months?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you open it?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“It has your name on it.”
I smiled.
Of course.
I opened it.
Dear Rue,
You are five years old as I write this, which means you currently believe popcorn is an acceptable dinner and that the moon follows our car because it likes you.
Your mother says both beliefs will eventually pass.
I hope not entirely.
