Grandpa saw her. He put down the letter he was holding.
Nobody said anything.
“I’ll go inside,” I said, and started to stand.
“No,” my mother said. Her voice was very quiet. “Stay. Please. I’d… I’d like you to stay.”
So I stayed.
She came up the steps slowly. She stood in front of her father. For a moment she looked like she might turn around and leave.
Then she said, “Hi, Dad.”
“Maggie,” Grandpa said.
She looked at the letters on the table between us. The bin. The masking tape with her own handwriting on it.
“Fifty-two,” she said. “You’re on fifty-two.”
“How do you know?”
“I counted them. Every time one came. I never opened them. But I counted.” She pressed her lips together hard. “I don’t know why. I think I wanted to know how much you loved her. So I’d know exactly how much you didn’t love me.”
