“Martin, I don’t know why I’m writing back. I told myself I wouldn’t. But you keep writing as if I’m still part of something I walked away from. Tell her I’m fine. Or don’t. Maybe it’s better if she thinks I don’t care. But I do, more than I should. I just don’t know how to fix something that’s been broken this long. —Dolly.”
I pressed the letter to my chest. All those years of silence, and she had been right there—writing back, missing me.
“I don’t understand,” Jane whispered. “Why didn’t Dad tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
But deep down, I did. If Martin had told me, I would have had to make a choice. And for a long time, I wasn’t ready.
That night, after Jane left, I spread the letters across the table. I read them one by one, watching the years pass. Martin had quietly carried this connection, never pushing Dolly, just keeping her in the loop—Jane’s wedding, Jake’s graduation, the grandchildren’s births, even small things.
“She started humming again in the kitchen. Reminded me of when we were all younger.”
I stopped there, tears in my eyes.
