I eased the hall closet door open.
I picked one up. It was still sealed and postmarked 12 years ago.
Another. Sealed.
Another, but this one was open. It was a birthday card.
Happy birthday, my beautiful girls! I hope to see you again soon.
Love, Mom.
A small sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.
“Anna? Honey, are you okay back there?” Jean called out.
It was a birthday card.
“Yeah! Just a second!”
I dug faster. The dates climbed up through the years.
Then I saw it — an envelope at the top, the postmark fresh.
Nine days ago.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“Anna?”
Jean’s footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Nine days ago.
I shoved letters into my purse, into my jacket, into my waistband, anywhere they’d fit.
“Anna, what are you—”
Jean stopped in the closet doorway.
Her face went through three expressions in one second. Confusion. Recognition. Then something colder than I’d ever seen.
“Put those back right now, or I’ll make sure your father never speaks to you and your sister ever again.”
I shoved letters into my purse.
All my childhood fears crashed down on me.
I stared at her, speechless, knowing full well that was no idle threat, and that if anyone could pull it off, it was her.
“I’m serious.” She stepped closer, voice dropping low. “Your father will be home any minute. Put those back, sit down and eat your quiche, and we’ll never speak of this again. This is the only chance I’m going to give you, Anna.”
The front door clicked open then.
Jean sighed. “Looks like your time just ran out.”
That was no idle threat.
I panicked.
“Dad! Please come here, you need to see—”
I broke off as Jean’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist. Hard.
“Anna?” Dad called out, his footsteps hurrying down the hall.
“Last chance,” Jean snarled. “Smile, Anna, or I swear to God I’ll have you out of this family by sundown.”
I looked down at her fingers, then up at her eyes, and I realized something: Jean was scared.
“Smile, Anna, or I swear to God I’ll have you out of this family by sundown.”
Dad stepped up behind Jean and stared at us both.
“Anna, what’s going on? These are Jean’s personal things,” he said.
“Thank God you’re here!” Jean turned and clung to my father. “Anna’s lost it! She started tearing through my things, making wild accusations—”
“I haven’t lost it!” I held up a handful of envelopes. “Dad. Look at the handwriting. These are letters from Mom. Jean has been hiding them all these years.”
