I sat on that floor until my legs went numb.
Thirty years of birthdays rearranged themselves in my head: trembling hands, closed doors, unexplained silences.
Then I searched the envelope again.
Inside was a small card with an address.
The next morning, I drove there.
Two towns away.
I barely slept.
The next morning, I drove there.
The house was modest, with flowerpots on the porch and a wind chime beside the door.
I sat in the car before getting out, still hoping for some harmless explanation—that Claire was a cousin or I’d misunderstood the letter.
A woman in her fifties answered.
Her hand rose to her mouth.
She stared at me.
“Mary?”
My stomach twisted.
“You know me?”
Her hand rose to her mouth.
“You must be Claire.”
“Oh, no.”
“You must be Claire.”
She nodded.
“Where’s Robert?”
I couldn’t answer.
Claire’s face changed.
“No. No, he would’ve told me.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
She grabbed the doorframe.
“No. No, he would’ve told me.”
“He was sick.”
“How sick?”
Behind her, an older woman’s voice called out.
“It took his life, in the end.”
Her eyes filled.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Claire covered her face.
An elderly woman stood in the hallway.
Behind her, an older woman’s voice called out, “Who is it?”
Claire turned.
“Mom, stay inside.”
I looked past her.
An elderly woman stood in the hallway using a walker.
Then she looked toward the driveway.
She stared at me.
Then she looked toward the driveway.
“Where is my son? I heard his name.”
I understood immediately.
Claire cried.
The old woman looked at me again.
My anger at him disappeared for one second.
“Did Robert come with you?”
My anger at him disappeared for one second.
“I’m Mary.”
She blinked.
“His wife?”
“Yes.”
The sound she made didn’t resemble crying at first.
Her face brightened with desperate hope.
“Then where is he?”
I swallowed.
“Robert died three weeks ago.”
The sound she made didn’t resemble crying at first.
She folded over her walker.
“I waited too long.”
