Neither of us spoke until we reached the marble steps.
Outside, the sky was gray.
Reporters waited below, but Rachel had arranged another exit if I wanted it.
My mother touched the railing.
“I have a box,” she said.
I looked at her.
“What box?”
“Your letters. The ones I kept. Some photos. A few birthday cards I never mailed.”
The words hit in small, hard places.
“Why didn’t you mail them?”
“Cowardice.”
Again.
No excuse.
Just the word.
I looked out at the city.
“What do you want from me, Mom?”
She breathed in shakily.
“I want to stop wanting something from you every time I apologize.”
That was the first answer that did not feel like theft.
She continued.
“I want to give you the box. Then I want to wait. However long. Even if the answer is never.”
I looked at her.
She was older now.
Not just by time.
By truth.
“I’ll take the box,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“But I’m not taking care of your guilt.”
She nodded quickly.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. But you can learn.”
She accepted that.
Two weeks later, the box arrived.
No note.
No request.
Just a plain brown package delivered to my apartment in Virginia.
I left it on the table for three days.
Then five.
Then ten.
On the eleventh night, I opened it.
Inside were pieces of the daughter I had mailed home and never got back.
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