He reached inside his jacket.
I stepped back again.
"It's only an envelope."
He placed it on the table instead of handing it to me.
My name was written across the front.
Not in David's handwriting.
In Michael's.
I knew every curve.
Every impatient stroke.
He always made the final letter of my name too large.
Eleanor.
My husband had written that envelope.
My knees weakened.
Clara pulled out a chair.
This time, I sat.
"Where did you get that?"
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David lowered himself across from me.
"After Ruth died, I found a box hidden behind the lining of an old suitcase."
"Your wife died six years ago."
"Yes."
"And you found this then?"
"Not immediately. I donated most of her clothes, but I kept the suitcase. I found the letters last year."
"What letters?"
"More than 40."
The courtyard seemed to tilt.
Clara quietly went inside, leaving David and me alone.
I looked at the envelope.
"Michael wrote to your wife?"
"For years."
"How many years?"
David's eyes filled.
"Almost 11."
I pushed the envelope away.
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"No."
"I wish I were wrong."
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