I recognized the stationery immediately.
The first was dated July 1974.
Daniel watched my face.
“Charles gave them to me last year.”
“I never sent these.”
“You did.”
I unfolded the first letter.
Daniel,
My mother says a girl cannot build a life with a man who has no plan. She says you are kind, but kindness does not pay rent. I told her I did not care about rent, but I was seventeen and thought wanting something was the same as being ready for it.
I read the next letter.
Then the next.
They were letters I had written to Daniel after leaving his house. I had mailed them, but none had received an answer. I had assumed he had moved on.
My fingers shook.
“Why didn’t you reply?”
Daniel looked toward the darkening garden.
“I did.”
He took out another bundle.
The letters he had written back were still sealed.
“Every one of them was returned to me.”
“Returned?”
“Your mother sent them back. She wrote that you had married Charles and that contacting you would be cruel.”
I stared at the envelopes.
The postmarks were from 1975, 1976, 1977.
For forty-nine years, Daniel had believed I had stopped writing.
I had believed he had stopped caring.
The lie was older than Bradley.
I pressed one hand over my mouth.
“Charles knew?”
“He found the letters when your mother died. He gave them to me in 1989.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
