My Mother Locked the Gate on Me

small plastic bag.

Inside were envelopes.

My handwriting.

My mother’s handwriting.

Maribel’s.

Some unopened.

Some marked RETURN TO SENDER.

“I found them in Dad’s office,” she said. “Bottom drawer. Behind tax files.”

My chest did something ugly.

I took the bag.

It was heavier than paper had any right to be.

“How many?”

“Enough.”

That word.

Enough.

I set the bag on continue reading …