Inside were old photographs, Charles’s military papers, Daniel’s elementary-school report cards, fabric from a quilt she had never finished.
Beneath them was a shoebox.
It had once held brown leather shoes.
Margaret lifted it.
Daniel reached for it.
She hesitated.
Then gave it to him.
This was not the moment to prove she could carry everything.
They returned downstairs.
Claire had not moved far from the kitchen table.
The blue plate remained in front of her.
Daniel placed the box down.
Margaret removed the lid.
A child’s red hair ribbon lay on top.
Claire’s hand flew to her mouth.
Margaret touched it.
“You hated keeping these in.”
Claire whispered, “You said I looked like I’d fought a lawn mower.”
Margaret laughed softly.
“You did.”
Under the ribbon were drawings.
A house with smoke coming from a chimney.
Three stick figures.
A dog that never existed.
Claire reached for the paper.
“The dog was named Button.”
“You asked me for a dog every Tuesday.”
“Why Tuesday?”
“I never knew.”
Claire smiled through tears.
Then she saw the envelopes.
There were dozens.
Some had been returned.
Some had never been mailed because Margaret had been instructed to send correspondence through the agency and later stopped trusting that it would go anywhere.
Claire picked up the first.
Her own name was written on the front in Margaret’s handwriting.
Claire Porter.
Age 8.
There was another.
Claire Porter.
