MARGARET — DO NOT OPEN BEFORE 62
My knees nearly gave way.
There was an entire box with my name on it.
For a moment, I forgot Daniel.
Forgot the photograph.
Forgot the man who had visited yesterday.
I opened my box.
Inside were dozens of sealed envelopes.
Each one had a year written across the front.
1989.
1992.
1997.
2004.
2011.
Robert had written letters to me for years.
Letters he had never given me.
At the bottom of the box sat a small cassette recorder.
A piece of masking tape was stuck across it.
In Robert’s handwriting were four words:
START WITH THIS, MAGGIE.
Nobody except Robert called me Maggie.
My hands shook as I pressed PLAY.
Static crackled.
Then I heard my husband’s voice.
“Hello, Maggie.”
My legs failed me.
I sat on the concrete floor.
Robert continued.
“If you’re hearing this, then
either I’m gone… or I finally became brave enough to tell you everything.”
