PART ELEVEN — ANNE’S FINAL QUESTION
Evelyn Carter died in 2018.
She left Anne every letter she had written but never sent.
Hundreds.
The first began:
My daughter is six months old today.
The next:
I saw Richard carrying you into church.
Later:
You wore a yellow dress for your school concert.
Evelyn had watched from distances.
Parking lots.
Store aisles.
Church steps.
She knew Anne’s life without entering it.
Anne read the letters after Evelyn’s death and became furious all over again.
“She wanted credit for loving me silently,” she told Richard.
They sat on the porch.
Preview
Richard’s hands shook with age.
“Do you think she loved me?” Anne asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it enough?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
Richard continued.
“Love that never acts may be real. It may also fail.”
Anne looked toward the yard.
“Did you ever wish she had taken me back?”
Richard’s face changed.
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
He smiled faintly.
“I feared it.”
“Same thing.”
“No. Wanting you safe with me and believing I owned the choice are different.”
“Would you have let me go?”
“If a court decided and you wanted it?”
“I was a baby.”
“Then I would have fought.”
She laughed through tears.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I would have fought too hard.”
“Do you regret adopting us?”
“Never.”
“Do you regret anything?”
“Waiting too long to ask for help.”
Anne rested her head against his shoulder.
“You asked a whole town eventually.”
“The town arrived before I learned how.”
