Later letters became more cautious.

Miriam wrote about the books she was reading, the seasons changing, and memories of the games we played.

She never demanded that I choose her over my father.

She simply asked for the chance to know me.

One letter had been written on my eighteenth birthday.

She described baking lemon cake in a borrowed kitchen because she remembered I disliked chocolate frosting.

I could picture her standing alone with the cake, lighting candles for someone hundreds of miles away.