I hung up and stared at the zipper for a long time.
Then I pulled it open.
Inside, there was no money, jewelry, house deeds, safes, or anything I’d braced myself for.
“Anticipated what?”
There were letters. Hundreds of them. Yellowed, brittle at the corners, tied with faded ribbon. Some were dated 1972. Some were dated last spring.
There was a small photograph, cracked along one edge, of a young woman holding a baby.
And on top of everything was a sealed envelope. My name was written across the front in Gloria’s shaky handwriting.
I sat there for a long time before I reached for it because somewhere inside me, I already knew that whatever was in that envelope would change everything.
There were letters.
***
Mr. Charleston’s office was quiet when I unfolded Gloria’s letter again. This time, Marcus sat across from me, arms crossed, waiting to pounce. The lawyer had arranged the meeting after I had read what Gloria had to say.
