I slit the flap. The letter was three pages, folded like it was meant to be carried on a long walk. My fingers were steady for the first line because, in truth, I had rehearsed the tone I’d adopt if ever she reached across the gulf. I would be firm. I would be kind. I would be clear.
Her handwriting trembled.
Anna,
I don’t know how to say this without sounding weak or foolish. I have been ashamed and angry and hurt—and then I have cried and asked myself what I did wrong. I remember when you were small you used to fall off your bike and come to me with scraped knees. I would put Neosporin on and kiss you better and then make you promise the same song would be sung at bedtime. I am clumsy with words, but I am not clumsy with love. I miss you.
I don’t understand why you chose this the way
