Every envelope carried the same sender.
Robert.
My hands began trembling.
“How long were you writing to each other?”
“On and off for decades.”
“Robert never told me.”
Arthur watched my face.
“He wasn’t hiding an affair, Abigail.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
I almost laughed.
He was right.
Arthur explained that after Robert returned to America, they stayed in touch occasionally.
Then life became busy.
Marriage.
Children.
Work.
Sometimes years passed between letters.
But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur again through an old friend.
Their correspondence became regular.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Arthur looked down at his hands.
“Because most of what he wrote was about you.”
I stopped.
“Me?”
Arthur reached inside the box and removed one envelope.
“He sent this with the painting.”
My name was written across the front.
I recognized Robert’s handwriting immediately.
The envelope was still sealed.
