I looked at him.
“You should have made me tell her.”
His expression hardened.
“I tried.”
“No. You asked me.”
“Helen, you know I tried.”
“You brought it up and then accepted no.”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell our daughter behind your back?”
I looked at him.
“Maybe.”
The word surprised both of us.
Then I started crying.
“Maybe someone should have.”
Hannah returned two days later.
She barely spoke to either of us.
She carried the wooden chest upstairs to her room.
For three days, she read David’s letters.
Not all at once.
A few at a time.
Sometimes she came downstairs with swollen eyes.
Sometimes angry.
Sometimes completely silent.
On the fourth evening, she entered the kitchen holding one envelope.
HANNAH — AGE 12.
She looked at David.
“You wrote that you wanted to tell me that year.”
He nodded.
“You wrote that Mom thought I was already having a hard enough time.”
