“She still talks about you in her sleep.”
I dropped the letter. Jane picked it up, her eyes widening. “Aunt Dolly?”
I nodded, forcing myself to keep reading.
“She still talks about you in her sleep. Sometimes it’s your name. Sometimes it’s just laughter I haven’t heard in years. I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. I thought you should know. —Martin.”
We went through the stack together. Some envelopes had stamps, others had been returned with forwarding labels or crossed-out addresses. Dolly had written back—not always, but enough to prove this had been going on for decades.
I found one in her handwriting. Jane leaned closer. “Mom… you don’t have to—”
I ignored her and opened it.
“Martin, I don’t know why I’m writing back. I told myself I wouldn’t. But you keep writing as if I’m still part of something I walked away from. Tell her I’m fine. Or don’t. Maybe it’s better if she thinks I don’t care. But I do, more than I should. I just don’t know how to fix something that’s been broken this long. —Dolly.”
I pressed the letter to my chest. All those years of silence, and she had been right there—writing back, missing me.
“I don’t understand,” Jane whispered. “Why didn’t Dad tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
But deep down, I did. If Martin had told me, I would have had to make a choice. And for a long time, I wasn’t ready.
