I read all thirty-seven letters over the course of a year.
Some made me laugh. Some made me angry. A few left me crying at the kitchen table. None of them gave me back the years, but they gave the years a voice.
Lucas visited most weekends. He brought his sister, then his wife, then their little daughter, who learned to skip stones along the lake and called the upstairs room the letter room.
On my sixty-first birthday, Lucas gave me a small package.
Inside was a new blue jewelry case.
I looked at him, startled.
“There’s nothing inside,” he said quickly. “I checked.”
I laughed.
“Thank goodness.”
He opened the case.
A simple brass key lay inside.
“It’s for the cottage,” he said. “I thought you should have your own.”
I closed my fingers around it.
“Thank you.”
“There’s a note too.”
I unfolded the paper.
