And she opened them. Which I was furious about for roughly nine days and which I have since worked out the reason for, because she told me, and the reason is that she had to know whether any of them said anything that she was going to have to act on.
And then she kept them.
Eleven envelopes in a case in her loft for two years, because she could not throw away a boy's letters and she could not hand them to me either.
I had asked her to do a thing, in a kitchen, in a state, and she had done the only thing a decent person could do with that instruction, which is neither.
And she carried the weight of it on her own for twenty-three months, including at my children's birthdays and at my fortieth and on five days away, and said nothing.
Why they were in that suitcase.
