We had repaired enough.
Not everything.
Enough.
During her final year, she asked me to sit beside her.
She gave me a box.
Inside were letters.
My letters to Lily.
Dozens.
Maybe more than a hundred.
She had kept them.
Never destroyed them.
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you read them?”
“Some.”
“Did Lily ever see them?”
“Not then.”
I felt anger return.
Sharp.
Old.
My mother cried.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I stood.
Then sat again.
I wanted to walk away.
Instead, I said.
“You stole years from both of us.”
“I know.”
“An apology doesn’t fix that.”
“I know.”
“Why did you keep them?”
She looked at the box.
“Maybe because I knew someday I’d have to face what I did.”
That honesty kept me in the room.
After she died, Lily and I read the letters together.
