"Not today," I said. "I gave it to you when I meant what I promised. We can decide what to do with it after we've both had some time."
"I still want to marry you."
I looked at her. "I know you want our wedding. I'm not sure you want the kind of marriage I'd need."
"That's unfair."
"Maybe. But I need a relationship where a disagreement doesn't become a threat. And I need a partner who doesn't decide what letters I'm allowed to read."
We both fell quiet. By noon the first of the four boxes was open again, its contents rearranged by Rachel according to her own logic. She repacked the photographs more carefully, wrapped the ceramics in an old towel, and removed a small brass bell her grandmother had given her because she wanted to carry it separately. When she taped the box shut, she wrote her name beside mine on the label, then crossed mine out.
There was something devastating about that simple gesture. We'd spent years writing both names on things: Christmas cards, wedding invitations, a shared list for groceries, even a ridiculous label on our refrigerator leftovers. Now she was correcting a box so it would belong to one person again.
I carried the first two downstairs when Olivia arrived in a blue hatchback. Olivia Morgan was three years older than Rachel and looked enough like her that strangers sometimes asked whether they were twins. Their resemblance ended at the way they handled conflict. Olivia was a school counselor, soft-spoken and direct, with an expression that suggested she had already heard several versions of whatever Rachel was about to say.
"Bruce," she said quietly, while Rachel went back upstairs for her coat. "I'm sorry."
"You don't know the whole situation."
"I know enough to know my sister is hurting. I also know she can make someone else responsible for managing her hurt."
I wasn't sure how to answer. Olivia looked toward our second-floor windows.
"I'm not asking you to take her back," she continued. "I'm going to give her a place to stay. What happens after that is between you."
"Thank you."
She hesitated. "She told me about the letter. Not the details. Just that she hid something from you and can't undo it."
"She sent a message to my sister pretending to be me."
Olivia closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she looked exhausted rather than surprised. "That's worse than I understood."
Rachel appeared carrying the last box and stopped when she saw us standing together. "What did you tell her?" she asked me.
"The truth," Olivia answered before I could speak. "That's not a secret we can keep for you."
Rachel's mouth tightened, but she didn't start another argument. We loaded the car in silence. At the curb, she turned back and looked at me as though she were trying to memorize my face.
"I thought if I made you afraid to lose me, you'd finally show me how much you loved me," she said.
"You already knew I loved you."
"I wanted to feel it."
"Then we should have talked about that feeling."