“Restricted by whom?”
Another silence.
“The adults involved.”
Letters were supposedly meant to go through the adults.
Contact was supposed to be reconsidered later.
“Supposed to be,” I repeated.
Denise sighed.
“It wasn’t handled well.”
“Did Luke send letters?”
“Yes.”
“Did Emma ever respond?”
“I don’t know.”
But Luke knew part of the answer.
That night, when I asked him, he disappeared into his bedroom.
He returned carrying an old shoebox.
Inside were copies of letters.
Dozens of them.
Every letter Luke had written to Emma over four years.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
Questions about school.
Friends.
Whether she was happy.
His handwriting changed as he grew older.
But every letter ended the same way.
I’m still your brother.
Again.
And again.
Year after year.
“She never replied,” Luke whispered. “Not once.”
He touched the box.
“I figured she hated me.”
“Then why did you keep writing?”
“In case.”
