The next morning, I drove to Elaine’s house with Mom’s sealed card in my purse.
When she opened the door, her face tightened.
“I told you I needed time.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
I held out the envelope.
“I found this after you left.”
Elaine stared at her name on the front.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“There’s nothing left to fix, Maeve.”
“No. There isn’t.”
She frowned.
“But Mom died before either of you found the nerve to speak. I can’t change that.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
That surprised her.
“I came because I need to say something without making excuses.”
My throat tightened.
“Five years ago, when you asked whether Mom talked about you, I knew she did.”
Elaine’s face went still.
“I knew she missed you. And I gave you the easiest answer because I didn’t want to deal with what came next.”
“So you lied.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think she didn’t care.”
“Yes.”
Anger flashed across her face.
I didn’t defend myself.
I didn’t change the subject.
I didn’t leave.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” I said. “But I’m done pretending silence doesn’t cost anything.”
I placed the envelope on the table beside her door.
“This belongs to you.”
Then I walked away before I could tell her what to do with it.
Three weeks later, Elaine sat across from me at Mom’s kitchen table.
The wooden box rested beside her chair.
“I read the card,” she said.
I waited.
“She said she’d spent years waiting until she knew exactly what to say.”
Elaine looked down at her coffee.
“Then she wrote that maybe waiting was the problem.”
“What else did she say?”
“She missed me.”
I reached for Elaine’s hand, then stopped before touching it.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “I wrote almost the same thing last year.”
Raven texted that evening.
