Part 2: The Box in the Closet
For the first few years after Claire left, I kept trying to reach her.
Not for my own sake.
It didn’t take long to realize that Claire had made a final decision. She wasn’t interested in looking back, and she certainly wasn’t interested in changing her mind.
The letters weren’t for me. They were for Lily and Grace.
I knew that one day my daughters would be old enough to form their own opinions about their mother. When that day came, I didn’t want to be the person standing in the way of any relationship they might want to have with her.
So I wrote.
I tucked school photographs into envelopes and included short notes about the people the girls were becoming. I sent report cards.
When Grace won a regional spelling bee at nine years old, I wrote to tell Claire about it.
When Lily performed a violin solo during her fifth-grade concert, I wrote again. I told Claire how Lily had stood perfectly still under the stage lights, focused and determined, and how proud I had been watching her. I remembered having to press my hand over my mouth just to stop myself from making noise.
At first, some of the letters came back unopened. Others vanished without any response.
Then, eventually, every single one of them did.
No replies. No acknowledgments. Nothing.
I kept every returned envelope.
I stored them all in a box at the back of my closet.
And year after year, the box grew fuller.
