“Then Grandma told me people don’t come back after they die. So I asked Dad if Mom was dead, and he said it was better not to talk about it anymore.”
He pointed toward the newest envelope.
“That came last week.”
The postmark was clearly visible.
July 29.
Eight days earlier.
I felt a slow pressure build behind my ribs.
“Did you open any of these?”
“One.”
He stared at the floor.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
Silas looked up.
“It said she remembered the song she used to sing when I couldn’t sleep.”
His voice became smaller.
“I remember a song, but I don’t remember her face.”
I glanced around the room again.
On the shelf stood a framed photograph of a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a green blanket. She had light brown hair like Silas and the same serious gray eyes.
