Chapter 13
Charlotte opened her first letter at five.
Not because the label said fifth birthday.
Because she found the box while I was looking for cufflinks.
Apparently secrecy in closets is overrated.
“What those?”
“Mommy’s letters.”
Her eyes widened.
“For me?”
“Some.”
“Now?”
I could have said later.
Eleanor had labeled one FOR HER FIFTH BIRTHDAY.
Charlotte was five.
Simple.
“Do you want one?”
“Yes.”
We sat on the bedroom floor.
I handed her the envelope.
She could read only small words.
So she asked me to read.
Permission.
Important.
Eleanor’s letter contained nothing profound.
She wrote about cake.
How Charlotte at one hated frosting but would probably change her mind.
She said:
If Daddy buys you a giant expensive present, tell him I said one good book would have been enough.
Charlotte looked at me.
“Mommy bossy.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Did she know me?”
“As a baby.”
“How know five?”
“She guessed.”
Charlotte considered.
“She wrong. I like frosting.”
Exactly.
Dead mothers can be wrong.
Healthy discovery.
We laughed.
At the end, Eleanor wrote:
You do not have to miss me today. Birthdays belong to the living.
I almost lost my voice.
Charlotte did not.
She said:
“Cake now?”
Yes.
Cake now.
That became the pattern.
No schedule.
Some years she wanted a letter.
Some not.
The box waited.
May you like
No one used it to control her emotions.
That was what Eleanor had asked for.
