The name written there—I hadn’t seen it in over 50 years.
Dolly.
My younger sister. The one I hadn’t spoken to in decades.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Martin and Dolly? No. That wasn’t possible. He would have told me. He told me everything. Didn’t he?
I opened the first letter. My hands shook as I unfolded it.
The first line stole the air from my lungs:
“She still talks about you in her sleep.”
I dropped the letter. Jane picked it up, her eyes widening. “Aunt Dolly?”
I nodded, forcing myself to keep reading.
“She still talks about you in her sleep. Sometimes it’s your name. Sometimes it’s just laughter I haven’t heard in years. I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. I thought you should know. —Martin.”
We went through the stack together. Some envelopes had stamps, others had been returned with forwarding labels or crossed-out addresses. Dolly had written back—not always, but enough to prove this had been going on for decades.
I found one in her handwriting. Jane leaned closer. “Mom… you don’t have to—”
I ignored her and opened it.
