I opened the top drawer.
Inside were scarves, a box of buttons, two fountain pens, and a bundle of old envelopes tied with green thread.
I carried them to the bed.
Most were bills and insurance notices. One was a letter from my aunt. Another contained photographs from my parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary.
Then, beneath the photographs, I found a narrow envelope with no stamp.
My mother’s handwriting was on the front.
For Hannah, if she ever asks about Douglas.
I sat down hard.
The envelope had been there all along.
I turned it over. The flap had never been sealed.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Hannah,
If you are reading this, then either I have finally found the courage to tell you, or you have found what I lacked the courage to destroy.
I stopped reading.
My eyes blurred. I removed my glasses and wiped them, but the words remained indistinct for another reason.
