“Go ahead,” Anna said softly.
“It was always meant for you.”
I picked it up.
The flap had already been opened long ago, carefully, so the paper wasn’t torn.
I slid the letter out.
Two pages, folded in thirds, written in Carol’s neat, careful hand.
I read the first line and had to set it down.
“Take your time,” Anna said.
She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and looked at the window.
I picked it up again.
*Dear Anna,*
*I am writing this because I cannot live with what I did without at least trying to explain it.
I don’t expect your forgiveness.
I’m not sure I deserve it.*
*When you came to the door that day, I knew exactly who you were.
James had talked about you.
