“Five years without visiting doesn’t mean we stopped being family.”
Something inside me finally snapped.
“No. It means Susan spent five years learning exactly how little that word meant to you.”
The porch went quiet.
Laura looked away.
Then I heard a weak voice behind me.
“Sam.”
I turned.
Susan was standing in the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall for support.
“Susan, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”
She ignored me.
In her other hand was a bundle of old envelopes tied together with a faded blue ribbon.
Greg stared at them.
“What’s that?”
I recognized the bundle.
It had been inside Susan’s bedside drawer ever since she moved into my house.
I had never touched it.
Susan slowly stepped forward.
“Bring everyone inside.”
“You need to rest.”
“No.”
Her voice was weak, but there was no hesitation in it.
“They came looking for the truth.”
She looked down at the letters.
“It’s time they heard it.”
Minutes later, Susan was seated in my living room chair.
Greg, Marcy, and Laura crowded onto the sofa.
The officer remained near the front door, mostly to verify that Susan was safe and staying in my home voluntarily.
“Let him stay,” Susan said.
Greg frowned.
“Mom, this is a family matter.”
Susan looked directly at him.
“You made it everybody’s matter when you started shouting accusations across the neighborhood.”
Greg said nothing.
Susan placed the letters on her lap and turned toward me.
“Sam. Sit down.”
I pulled a chair closer.
She untied the blue ribbon.
The envelopes were yellowed with age.
Then I noticed the handwriting.
My chest tightened.
I knew those letters.
Not the envelopes themselves.
The handwriting.
I had seen it on birthday cards.
Shopping lists.
School forms.
Notes stuck to the refrigerator.
I suddenly stood.
“No.”
Susan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Sit down, Sam.”
“Where did you get those?”
Greg stared between us.
“What’s going on?”
Susan lifted the first envelope.
“Sam’s mother gave them to me.”
Everything inside the room stopped.
I stared at her.
“You knew my mother?”
Susan nodded.
“For many years.”
“How?”
“She was one of my closest friends.”
I dropped back into the chair.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because your mother asked me not to unless the day came when you needed to know.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It will.”
Susan rested one hand on the letters.
“Your mother and I became friends years before you ever moved across the street from me. We remained in contact for a long time. She talked about you and your siblings constantly. She was so proud when all of you left home and built lives of your own.”
I struggled to breathe normally.
“When she became ill,” Susan continued, “she started writing letters. She intended to send them to you.”
“Then why didn’t she?”
“Because she changed her mind.”
“Why?”
Susan swallowed.
“Because she knew the letters would make you rush home out of guilt.”
My throat tightened.
“She didn’t want the final chapter of your relationship with her to be about obligation.”
Susan held an envelope toward me.
My name was written across the front.
I took it with shaking hands.
Inside, my mother explained that she had known I worried about her.
She admitted she had deliberately hidden how weak she had become.
Not because she didn’t trust me.
Because she wanted me to continue living.
She knew that if I understood how sick she really was, I would abandon everything and come home.
Then came the part I could barely read.
She had written that if I ever blamed myself for not being beside her when she died, I needed to stop.
She knew I loved her.
She had always known.
I bent forward and cried.
Years of regret broke open all at once.
Susan rested her hand against my shoulder.
“I told her you would blame yourself,” she whispered.
I looked up.
“What?”
A tiny smile appeared on Susan’s face.
“She knew you very well. She once told me, ‘Sam always thinks loving somebody means he has to fix everything.’”
A broken laugh escaped me.
That sounded exactly like my mother.
“She asked me to keep these letters until the right moment.”
Susan looked around my living room.
“After she died, I considered mailing them. Then, years later, you moved into the house directly across from mine.”
I stared at her.
