“I’m sorry. She passed away in her sleep.”
“My name’s Trina.”
I looked through my window.
Margaret’s curtains were closed.
“She mentioned you often,” Trina added. “I thought you’d want to know. I found your number in her phonebook.”
“Thank you for calling, Trina. My sympathies to you.”
“She mentioned you often.”
I couldn’t manage anything else.
***
At the funeral, I cried harder than I’d expected.
Trina stood near the front, greeting people. She looked tired, and I wondered how long she’d been handling everything alone.
I couldn’t manage anything else.
Afterward, I approached her.
“Thank you for letting me know about Margaret.”
“Of course.”
“We spent nearly every Saturday together. She taught me to knit, although I’m still terrible at it.”
I approached her.
Trina smiled faintly.
“She used to knit all winter.”
“She was wonderful to me.”
Her expression changed.
“I’m glad somebody got to know that side of her.”
Trina smiled faintly.
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I’m glad she had a friend.”
She excused herself.
Three days later, Margaret’s lawyer called.
“What do you mean?”
***
Mr. Benson introduced himself and explained that Margaret had left instructions for him to contact me.
At his office, he handed me a sealed envelope.
Inside was a note in Margaret’s shaky handwriting.
“There’s a box in my attic with your name on it. What’s inside was never meant for anyone else.”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
“A box?”
“Margaret asked me to deliver that note after her passing,” he explained. “Trina is handling her belongings. You’ll need to arrange access with her.”
“Did she tell you what was inside?”
“No. She only asked that you receive her message.”
“A box?”
I thanked Mr. Benson and called Trina from my car.
“Margaret left something for me in her attic. Would you mind if I came by?”
There was a pause.
“She never mentioned it.”
I thanked Mr. Benson.
“She didn’t mention it to me either.”
“Come tomorrow morning. I’m sorting through the house anyway.”
***
Trina opened the door the following morning.
Margaret’s knitting basket still stood beside her favorite chair.
Trina opened the door.
For a moment, I expected her to call out from the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” Trina asked.
“Yes. It just feels strange being here.”
She glanced at the empty chair.
“Are you all right?”
“It does.”
She showed me upstairs.
***
The attic smelled of cardboard and old books.
Near a dresser, I found a wooden box with JO written across its lid.
My throat tightened.
“It does.”
Inside were several bundles of letters tied with ribbon.
A separate envelope lay on top.
I recognized Margaret’s handwriting.
A separate envelope lay on top.
“My dear Jo,
You always asked whether I needed anything. There was something I needed, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
These letters are for Trina. I wrote them over the years but never sent them.
I was too afraid.
I left them with you because I trust you to decide whether she should receive them. Please don’t feel obligated.”
“These letters are for Trina.”
Why had Margaret entrusted me with Trina’s letters?
I opened the oldest one.
“Dear Trina,
I should never have said what I said about your mother.
You were young. You had every right to take that job.
I was frightened of losing you, and I made you feel guilty for leaving.”
“You were young.”
Another letter was dated two years later.
“I miss you, Trina. I wish we could start again.”
“Why didn’t you send these?” I whispered.
I opened another.
I don’t know how many more years we have.
I opened another.
I remembered asking Margaret about her niece one Saturday.
“Did you two have an argument?”
“She took a job in another state.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reason to stop speaking.”
I remembered asking Margaret.
Margaret had looked away.
“I said something about her mother. Something awful.”
“Did you apologize?”
Margaret looked down.
“I’ve thought about it, Jo.”
“Did you apologize?”
