For Clara, when the house gets too quiet.
I sat on the rug beside his chair.
For a minute, I couldn’t open it.
Then I slid my finger beneath the flap.
Birdie,
If you’re reading this, Nora has probably done the difficult part, and you are probably angry that I didn’t tell you everything sooner.
You’re allowed.
Don’t make me a saint just because I’ve died.
I’ve been wrong often enough to make that embarrassing.
I laughed.
Then I cried because I had laughed.
The letter went on.
I thought I could put all the ugly things in a drawer and leave you only the good ones.
That was foolish.
You’re a grown woman.
You deserved to know what was happening.
I’m sorry.
There were three pages.
He wrote about the house.
About the petition.
About how frightened he had been that my parents might arrive when I was too exhausted to stand against them.
