It was not the letter that did it. I could have managed a letter.
It was a face.
What was in the letters.
I read them on the Wednesday, all eleven, in order, over about two hours, with my husband in the next room because I asked him to be there and not in the room.
His name is Isaac. He is nineteen now.
I am not going to put what is in them in here. They are his and he wrote them to one person.
What I will say is that the first four are the letters of a boy of seventeen being extremely careful, and that the fifth one is not careful at all, and that by the eighth they have got shorter.
And the eleventh, which is dated the second of August, 2025, is six lines long.
It says that he understands, that he is not going to write again, that he hopes I am well, and that if I ever change my mind Larkmoor will still have his details.
