What I Did With the Letter

I looked at the cheap envelope on my desk, at Raymond’s careless handwriting, and I could guess the contents without opening it. A plea for help. A request that I tell the judge what a good man he really was, or send him money, or agree that our father had made him do it.

“Would you like me to file this for you, Mrs. Sanders?” Clara asked.

“No, Clara,” I said calmly. “I don’t need it.”

Years ago, the mere sight of my brother’s handwriting would have made me anxious and sad, would have set me scrambling to fix his problems for him. Today it meant nothing.

It was only paper.

I didn’t open it. I picked it up and dropped it into the shredder beside my desk. The blades caught it with a whir, and I stood there for a few seconds and listened to Raymond’s excuses and lies reduced to confetti.