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How are you? I am fine. I bet you’re on your way to see me because you miss me as much as I miss you.
Love, your daughter, Tully
Dear Mommy,
Do you miss me? I miss you.
Love, your daughter, Tully
She turned the page and kept reading. More letters.
Dear Mommy,
Today at school we got to ride a pony. Do you like ponies? I do. Gran says maybe you’re lergic, but I hope not. When you come to get me maybe we can get a pony.
Love, your daughter, Tully
“You sign them all your daughter, Tully. Did you wonder if I even knew who you were?”
In bed, Tully made a sound. Her eyes fluttered open. Dorothy rose quickly. “Tully? Can you hear me?”
Tully made a sound, like a tired sigh, and closed her eyes again.
Dorothy stood there a long time, waiting for more. It wasn’t unusual, Tully opening her eyes, but it always felt meaningful. “I’ll keep reading,” Dorothy said, sitting down again, turning the page.
There were hundreds of letters, written at first in a wobbly child’s hand, and then, as the years went on, in a more confident young woman’s handwriting. Dorothy read them all.
I tried out for cheerleader today, to China Grove.
Do you know that song?
I know all of the presidents. Do you still want me to be president?
How come you never came back?
She longed to quit reading—each word of each letter was like a stab to the heart—but she couldn’t stop. Here was her child’s life, all laid out in letters. She read through her tears, each letter and postcard and piece from the school newspaper.
In about 1972, the letters stopped. They never turned angry or accusatory or blaming; they just ended.
Dorothy turned the last page. There, taped to the back page, she found a small blue envelope, sealed, that was addressed to Dorothy Jean.
She caught her breath. Only one person called her Dorothy Jean.
Slowly, she opened the envelope, saying in a nervous voice, “There’s a letter here from my mom. Did you know it was here, Tully? Or did she put it here after you’d given up on me?”
She pulled out a single sheet of stationery, as thin as parchment, and crinkled, as if maybe it had been wadded up once and then re-smoothed.
Dear Dorothy Jean,
I always thought you’d come home. For years I prayed. I begged God to send you back to me. I told Him that if He granted me just one more chance I would not be blind again.
But neither God nor you listened to an old woman’s prayers. I can’t say as I blame either one of you. Some wrongs can’t be forgiven, can they? The preachers are wrong about that. I must have made a million samplers for God. A single word to you would have served me better.
Sorry. It is so small. Just five letters and I was never strong enough to say it. I never even tried to stop your father. I couldn’t. I was too afraid. We both know how he liked his lit cigarettes, didn’t we?
I am dying now, fading despite my best intentions to wait for you. I was better for Tully. I want you to know that. I was a better grandmother than I ever was a mother. This is the sin I take with me.
I won’t dare to ask for your forgiveness, Dorothy Jean. But I am sorry. I want you to know that.
