The last envelope was dated eleven years ago, a week before my wedding.

Miriam wrote that she’d seen an engagement announcement and hoped I was happy.

She included a pressed yellow flower.

The petals had flattened into delicate paper.

I had married Lucas believing my mother was dead.

My father had walked me down the aisle.

Richard Kessler had sat in the first row.

All that time there was a woman somewhere who would have crossed any distance to see me.