“Four pages,” he said, shaking his head. “Over a B. That’s my girl.”
Some of his letters were hard to hear.
There was one from the first winter at Briar Glen. He’d written it the week of my sixteenth birthday. I read it out loud, and my voice gave out halfway through, and Daniel had to finish it for me.
Dear Emmy,
Your mother says you’re busy and don’t want letters. I understand. Sixteen is a big age. You have your own life now. I won’t bother you much longer.
But I want you to know something, in case nobody ever tells you. You were never too much. You were never too difficult. The questions you ask are the right questions. Don’t let anybody make you stop asking them.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope somebody remembered to put your name on the cake.
Love always,Grandpa
