“You came here wearing it?”
Madeline’s face tightened.
“I thought it might be easier than carrying it in a bag.”
“Why did you come at all?”
She opened the small purse hanging from her wrist.
Then she removed a yellowed envelope.
My knees weakened.
My name and address were written across the front.
In my handwriting.
Madeline held it toward me.
“I found this inside the lining.”
I took it.
My fingers shook.
“I wrote this.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“It is addressed to Teresa.”
Hearing my daughter’s name spoken by someone wearing her dress felt like a hand closing around my throat.
“Did you read it?”
Madeline lowered her eyes.
“Part of it.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
No defense.
No excuse.
That made it harder to remain cleanly angry.
“I stopped when I understood what it was,” she continued. “Your address was on the envelope. I did not know whether you still lived here, but I could not throw it away.”
“You could have mailed it.”
“I could have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Her hand moved over the blue skirt.
“Because you wrote that you never saw your daughter wear the dress.”
My chest tightened.
“The dress survived.”
My voice broke.
“Teresa did not.”
Madeline’s expression softened.
“You are right. I am sorry.”
She reached behind her neck again.
“I will leave the gown with you.”
I looked at the crooked pearls.
“Are you planning to repair those?”
She touched the shoulder.
