Then we work out what happens next.”
She began to cry again.
“Don’t promise me anything right now,” I said.
“Tomorrow you call Nora.
You tell her the truth about your statement.”
“I will.”
“And you ask before you move anything.”
A small, broken sound escaped her.
Almost a laugh.
“Okay.”
I stood up.
At the kitchen doorway, I turned.
“You can hate what they did and still be responsible for what you did.”
She looked at me.
“I know.”
This time, I thought she might.
The blue tin waited in Grandpa’s desk until Sunday evening.
I had forgotten it in the chaos.
Then I opened the drawer looking for postage stamps and saw it beneath his old address book.
It had once held shortbread.
The lid still showed a faded picture of a little stone cottage.
Inside were letters tied with kitchen string.
My name was on the top envelope.
