People had made decisions.
Then other people inherited them.
I called Claire.
Her telephone number was at the bottom of the letter.
It rang five times.
“Hello?”
Her voice was deeper than I expected.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then I said, “Hi.”
Silence.
“Anna?”
One word.
My name.
Spoken by someone who had apparently known it longer than I could remember knowing hers.
“Yes.”
She began crying.
So did I.
Our first conversation lasted eleven minutes.
Neither of us managed anything profound.
She apologized.
I told her I wasn’t ready to accept an apology for twenty-seven years in eleven minutes.
She laughed through tears.
“Fair.”
I asked whether she had children.
One son.
Twenty-two.
His name was Michael.
I had a nephew.
She asked about Lily.
I described her obsession with outer space and pancakes.
Then I asked the question that frightened me.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
