“I sent her another card on her birthday,” Mom whispered.
Helen reached into the box.
“I know.”
She handed Mom an envelope. Mom recognized it before she touched it.
Her own handwriting covered the front.
Across the front, under Mom’s handwriting, someone had printed three words in blue ink.
“RETURN TO SENDER.”
Helen touched the writing.
“That’s Mom’s.”
Mom’s fingers shook.
“She sent this back.”
“Yes.”
Mom stared at the blue writing. “Then why was she waiting for another one?”
Helen swallowed.
“Mom told me she sent it back because she wanted to see if you’d try again. Then she checked the mailbox every day for weeks.”
Mom stared at her.
“Then Christmas came. She thought you’d write.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was respecting what she wanted.”
Helen wiped her cheek. “She thought you’d stopped trying.”
Mom bowed her head. For decades, each of them had believed the other’s silence was an answer.
