Then did not obey.
“I read them anyway,” she said.
My whole body went cold.
“You read them?”
She nodded.
“Not all. Some. Before he took them.”
“Before he took them?”
She covered her mouth.
“I let him manage it.”
“What does that mean?”
My voice was sharper now.
People turned in the hallway.
I did not care.
“What does that mean, Mom?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“It means mail came for us. From you. Military addresses. Postmarks. Sometimes photos. Sometimes documents. Grant said responding would make things worse. He said you were trying to pull us into your delusions.”
I stared at her.
“I sent proof.”
“I know.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t get to say that like it helps.”
She shook her head, crying harder.
“It doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t.”
She held out the envelope again.
“I kept one because your father told me to throw them all away.”
My father stepped closer.
“That is not fair.”
My mother turned on him.
“No. What wasn’t fair was letting our son tell us our daughter was crazy because it was easier than admitting we didn’t understand her life.”
The hallway went silent.
My father’s face hardened.
“We were protecting the family.”
My mother’s voice broke.
“From our own child?”
He said nothing.
My mother looked back at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I had imagined those words for eight years.
I thought they would warm me.
They did not.
They landed like rain on a burned house.
Too late to save what was gone.
But still real.
I took the envelope.
Inside was a photo.
Me at twenty-six.
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