Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two

“Clare never stopped writing to you,” David said.

His voice was low and practical, pitched just under the hum of the ceiling fans.

“She sent thirty letters over the years.

Every single one came back stamped refused, or disappeared before it left the county.”

I sat down on the cracked vinyl bench and touched the folder.

“I thought she stopped.”

“She thought you moved away without leaving a forwarding address,” David said.

“She thought you wanted nothing to do with her.”