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.
