THE LETTER KEEPER

ck from the road, a modest two-story colonial with white clapboard siding and green shutters that had seen better days. The front porch sagged slightly, and several of the shutters

to respect his choice to stay away, even though it was killing her." Mrs. Patterson's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "That woman died of a broken heart, Margaret. The cancer might have taken her body, but it was the loneliness that really did her in." They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of Eleanor's story settling between them. Then Mrs. Patterson looked directly at Margaret. "Why do you ask, dear? Have you heard something about James?" Margaret hesitated. She couldn't reveal what she'd read in the letter, but she felt compelled to say something. "I've been thinking about family lately, about the things we leave unsaid. Eleanor seemed like such a good woman." "She was the best," Mrs. Patterson said firmly. "And if that son of hers ever does come around, he's going to have to answer to me for the way he treated her." As Margaret drove home that night, Mrs. Patterson's words echoed in her mind. The image of Eleanor watching the mailbox, hoping for word from her son, was almost unbearable. How many days had she walked to the end of her driveway, expecting to find the letter that James had finally written but hadn't had the courage to send until it was too late? Margaret's own house was small and tidy, a reflection of her ordered life as a woman who had built her world around routine and responsibility. She'd bought it twenty years ago when she'd finally given up hope of marriage and children, deciding that she needed to create a home for herself alone. It was comfortable and quiet, filled with books and the kind of furniture that lasted-practical choices for a practical life. But tonight, the silence felt oppressive. Margaret made herself a cup of tea and sat at her kitchen table with James's letter spread out before her. She read it again, noting details she'd missed the first time. The careful way he'd described his children, the regret in every line, the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, it wasn't too late for love to bridge the gap that