I said:
“Why didn’t she contact me?”
Sophie closed her eyes briefly.
“That’s complicated.”
“People say complicated when they want extra time before telling an ugly truth.”
She nodded.
“My mother says that too.”
“Do not tell me things she says like I’m supposed to find them charming.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t she contact me?”
Sophie looked down.
“Because she believed you didn’t want her to.”
I stared.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice cracked.
“You do not know what forty years feels like.”
Sophie’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“I don’t.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
She took a breath.
Mara had not remained with Daniel for long.
They lasted four months.
The romance collapsed under motel bills, cheap jobs and reality.
Mara was ashamed.
Too proud to call home immediately.
Then she did.
At least according to Sophie.
“How?”
“Letters.”
I frowned.
“What letters?”
“She wrote to you.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“I never received one.”
Sophie opened her bag.
Then stopped.
“Can I show you something?”
“Show me.”
She pulled out a clear plastic folder.
Inside were photocopies of envelopes.
My childhood address.
My name.
Claire Mercer.
Mara’s handwriting.
Dates.
My hands started shaking.
“That’s impossible.”
“There were twenty-three.”
I looked up.
“Twenty-three?”
“Over about eleven years.”
“She wrote me twenty-three letters?”
“Yes.”
“I received none.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Sophie’s expression changed.
“That’s part of what my mother needs to tell you.”
“No.”
“She has had forty years.”
“I’m asking you.”
Sophie hesitated.
Then said:
“Some of them came back.”
I stared.
“With what?”
“Return to sender.”
“Why?”
“On several, someone wrote that you no longer lived there.”
I laughed once.
“I lived there until I was twenty-two.”
“I know.”
“How?”
