When sixty years of family silence arrives at your driveway, breathe first.
Thomas finally opened the front door.
Claire began walking.
She wore dark trousers, a blue sweater and boots dusted with road grit. Her hair was brown and straight.
When she reached the porch, she looked at Dad.
“You’re Gustav.”
Dad nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“Laura?”
“Yes.”
For a moment we simply examined one another.
Then Claire smiled faintly.
“My mother said you looked like her.”
I almost laughed.
“I was about to say the same thing.”
That broke something.
Not the sadness.
Only the stiffness around it.
Claire stepped inside.
Dad offered coffee.
Of course he did.
She accepted.
Of course she did.
We sat around the kitchen table with the blue metal box between us like an additional relative.
Claire touched its lid.
“Mom talked about this.”
Dad looked surprised.
“She knew about the box?”
