After a while, he said, “I wish you had known her.”
“I did.”
He looked at me.
“Barely.”
“Sometimes barely is still enough to change a life.”
On the drive home, we stopped at the storage unit.
Daniel had decided to empty it.
Most of Rebecca’s belongings went to family members or charity.
He kept a few things.
Her sweater.
The coffee mug.
Several photographs.
The letter to me.
We were nearly finished when I noticed a narrow wooden box behind a stack of books.
“What is that?”
Daniel frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“Something else you’ve never seen?”
“Apparently Rebecca was better at secrets than I gave her credit for.”
Inside were several envelopes.
Most had names.
Mom.
Dad.
Daniel.
Sarah.
Then one envelope underneath the others.
It had no name.
Only a date.
December 2001.
Three months after Rebecca died.
Daniel stared at it.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“What?”
“That isn’t Rebecca’s handwriting.”
