Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later
“She sent another message, Dad,” she said.
I kept my hands in my pockets, my thumb rubbing the bare spot on my left wrist where my wedding band used to sit.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She asked if Jerome’s family was contributing,” Adele said. “She wanted to know if they were respectable.”
“Jerome is a good man,” I said. “He works forty hours a week at the lumber yard.”
“I know,” Adele said. “But she wants to make sure Harry doesn’t feel out of place.”
“Harry doesn’t have to come,” I said.
“He is coming,” Adele said. “She already bought his plane ticket.”
She stood up and walked toward the counter, leaving the white roses behind in the bucket.
We walked home under a gray sky that threatened rain before nightfall.
The kitchen table was covered in utility bills, grocery flyers, and local coupons when we returned. Lucille sat on the old braided rug in the living room, her legs tucked under her as she sorted the afternoon mail into three separate piles.
At twenty, Lucille was the one who inherited her mother’s sharp chin and the quiet, heavy stare that made you feel like you had forgotten to lock the back door.
“This is for Adele,” Lucille said, holding up a thick square envelope.
She turned the paper over, her thumb tracing the blue ink of the postmark. It was Chicago, stamped six days ago.
“Give that to me,” I said.
“It has her name on it, but it is from her,” Lucille said, her voice rising as she stood up. “I know her handwriting. It is the same round letters from the old photo album.”
“Put it on the counter, Lucille.”
“Why is she writing to Adele here?” Lucille crossed her arms and glared at the floor. “Is she trying to buy her way back in now that there is a wedding?”
“We are not discussing this in the hallway,” I said.
“Adele already has three of these in her room,” Lucille said.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked once, a heavy oak thud that seemed to fill the gap between us.
