"Bruce," she said, her voice nearly breaking. "Please don't open that here."
"Why?"
She swallowed. "Because once you read it, you're going to think I made a choice for you."
I looked down at my name, written in the familiar hand of a sister I had not heard from in far too long.
"Did you?" I asked.
Rachel said nothing.
I broke the seal.
The paper inside was folded twice, the creases worn soft from being handled. There were two pages. The handwriting was unmistakably Leah's, though more careful than I remembered, as if she had written the first sentence several times and finally decided to stop starting over.
Bruce,
I don't know if you'll read this. I tried the number I had, but it isn't yours anymore, and I know we left things badly. I'm writing because Dad was admitted to the hospital in February. The doctors say his heart has been struggling for a long time. He's stable now, but he'll need treatment, and we don't know how much better he'll get. I don't want you to hear about something happening to him from a stranger after it's too late to make your own choice.
He asked about you. I told him I wasn't going to pressure you. He said he understands. I believe him about that much, at least. He isn't asking you to pretend the past didn't happen. He just wants you to know he's trying to make things right and that he has something he would like to give you in person, if you're willing.
I miss you too, although I know that isn't enough to fix us. You can call me at the number below. If you don't want to see him, say so, and I'll respect it. But please let it be your decision. You deserve that.
Love, Leah.
At the bottom she had written an address in a small town outside Milwaukee and a phone number I didn't recognize. Beside it was another tiny star. I sat so still that the building seemed to move around me. The radiator clicked. A siren rose and faded somewhere beyond the window. I heard Rachel draw a breath from across the room.
My father was sick. My sister had tried to tell me six months earlier. Rachel had read, or at least recognized, a private letter addressed to me and then put it behind wedding invitations where I would never think to look.
"How long?" I asked.
Rachel hugged her elbows. "Bruce, I can explain."
"How long have you known my father was ill?"
"Since the letter came."
"Did you read it?"
She hesitated, and the hesitation answered for her. "I thought it might upset you. I didn't know what else was inside."
"You read a letter addressed to me."
"I opened it by mistake. I was sorting the mail with the wedding samples, and I didn't notice the name until afterward."
I looked at the neat blue writing. "And then you made a mistake for six months? Every day you saw me you could've told me a letter had arrived."
"I meant to."
"When?"
"I don't know."