One autumn, the wall behind the shelves developed water damage.
The unit shifted.
Several envelopes slipped through a narrow gap.
“We didn’t know.”
“How many?” Mrs. Parker asked.
“Twenty-three.”
Mrs. Parker inhaled.
“All Thomas’s?”
“No. Most belonged to other teachers.”
“How many were mine?”
“Seven.”
Seven letters.
Seven chances for a different understanding.
Marianne continued.
“We found them years later during renovations.”
“Why didn’t you give them to me?”
Her voice contained no anger.
That somehow made the question harder.
Marianne looked down.
“Because by then Thomas was married.”
Mrs. Parker was silent.
“I contacted him,” Marianne said. “I thought returning the letters to him was the respectful thing.”
“And he agreed?”
“At first.”
Marianne looked uncomfortable.
“Then he asked whether you had written to him.”
Mrs. Parker whispered, “I had.”
“I told him I didn’t know.”
“But you did.”
Marianne looked up sharply.
Mrs. Parker continued.
“You knew because I mailed several from the school.”
