I find the letters in the desk drawer.

  A stack of them, different pens, different years, bound together with a rubber band. I sit on the floor with my back against the bed and I go through them one by one.

  The first ones are a child’s handwriting. Large and unsteady.

  Dear Mama. I dont know where you are. Papa says you needed space. I have space in my room you can have it if you want. Please come home. Love Elise.

  I put it down. I pick up the next.

  Dear Mama. I got a good grade on my spelling test. I wanted to tell you. I thought maybe you would want to know.

  And the next.

  Dear Mama. I made a sandwich today the way you used to make it. Crust off. Cut diagonal. It tasted right. I don’t know why I’m telling you that.

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  I read every letter.

  The handwriting grows as I go. The sentences get longer. The waiting in the early ones gives way to something quieter and more careful in the later ones, like she stopped expecting an answer and started just needing somewhere to put the words.

  I almost searched for you today. I closed the tab. I don’t know if I’m ready.

  I found you. I think I actually found you. I don’t know what happens now.

  I saw you and you didn’t know my face. I told you my name. You said oh. I told you I had the wrong person. I don’t know why I did that. I think I didn’t want to make things hard for you.

  I stop at that one. I read it again.

  She was protecting me, I think. Standing on a pavement with her back against a wall, not crying, she was protecting me.

  The last letter is short. Written in the same careful hand but slower somehow, like each word took effort.

  I saw you on the step. You looked okay. You looked like you found something good. I’m glad. I’m really glad you got out.

  I don’t think I’m going to make it back.

  I love you. I know you did what you had to. I know.

  Good.

  Just that. Then: E.

  I sit on the floor of my daughter’s apartment and I hold the last letter.

  Outside the window the street is ordinary. People walking. A bus going past.

  She forgave me, I think. She forgave me and she didn’t make it and she forgave me anyway.