The trunk sat beneath a row of winter coats.
“Why did she never send them?”
“Because fear became her excuse.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It is true.”
The trunk sat beneath a row of winter coats. It was made of dark wood, with brass corners.
The first had been written three days after she left me.
My hand shook as the key turned.
Inside were envelopes tied into dated bundles, each one carrying my name in Cara’s handwriting.
The first had been written three days after she left me.
I opened it carefully.
“I am pregnant,” the letter began.
Cara wrote that she had learned the truth hours before our argument.
I stopped breathing.
Cara wrote that she had learned the truth hours before our argument.
When I spoke about graduate school, travel, and waiting years for children, she panicked. She believed telling me would force me to surrender the future I wanted so desperately.
She went to her mother’s house, planning to return after she found the right words.
The next letter described a hospital room, a silent monitor, and Cara signing forms alone.
Before she could, complications ended the pregnancy.
The next letter described a hospital room, a silent monitor, and Cara signing forms alone.
I read one line twice.
“I lost our baby. Then I lost myself.”
The letters that followed were worse because hope appeared in every opening.
Too much time had passed.
“I will call tomorrow.”
“I bought a train ticket.”
“I found your office number.”
Each letter ended with retreat.
Too much time had passed. I would hate her. I had probably moved on.
She kept choosing silence over honesty.
“She knew I never married.”
I slammed the bundle against the floor.
“She knew where I was.”
Mara leaned against the dresser.
“Yes.”
“She knew I never married.”
“Yes.”
“And you let this continue?”
“Did she know I looked for her?”
“Eventually.”
I turned on Mara.
“And you let this continue?”
Mara did not flinch.
