Inside was a bundle of envelopes tied with faded blue ribbon.
“I wrote to Claire every month after she left,” Mom said. “At first I wrote to Irene, asking for photographs. Then I begged to visit. When Claire was old enough, I wrote directly to her.”
“Did she answer?”
“Never. Irene told me the letters upset her and I had to stop. Eventually she stopped answering me, too.”
Mom handed me a carbon copy of a letter dated almost 54 years earlier. I read the first lines aloud.
“Please let me see her, even for one afternoon. I know what I signed. I know I can’t undo it. But she deserves to know she has a mother who loves her.”
My eyes filled.
“You kept copies?”
“I couldn’t bear to throw them away.”
There were birthday cards, Christmas letters, and a photograph of two tiny babies in matching hospital caps. On the back, Mom had written, “Sarah, left. Anna, right.”
