“I sent birthday cards until you were eighteen.”
Claire pressed one hand over her mouth.
Margaret continued.
“I called when you turned ten. Twelve. Sixteen. I asked whether there was any way to know if you were safe.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“They told me you had been adopted eventually.”
“When?”
“After you were eleven.”
“Did they say by whom?”
“No.”
Margaret looked toward the window.
“I asked if I could send you one more letter. They said they could not promise it would reach you.”
Claire gripped the chair.
“And you stopped?”
“When you were nineteen.”
“Why?”
“Because I was told you were an adult and had not requested contact.”
Claire stared at her.
Margaret’s voice softened.
“I thought perhaps you did not want it.”
Claire’s tears spilled.
“I thought you didn’t.”
Neither moved.
Daniel remained beside the doorway, looking helpless.
Margaret reached for the back of the chair.
Her instinct was to cross the room.
To touch Claire.
To tell her not to cry.
But Claire had spent fourteen years as her daughter-in-law.
And nearly seventy minutes, now, becoming someone else too.
Margaret did not know what right she had to touch her.
Claire solved it.
She stepped forward.
Then stopped.
“Did you keep anything?”
Margaret frowned.
“From then?”
“Yes.”
Margaret looked toward the hallway.
“A box.”
