Every letter was angry.
My husband came over and stood beside me. “Do you remember writing any of these?”
I picked up another.
“No.”
I picked up another.
Then another.
“I never wrote any of them.”
At first, I thought maybe someone had simply signed my name.
My hands went cold.
Then I looked closer.
The handwriting. The tall capital letters. The strange way the writer crossed every t, slightly too far to the left.
The way my name was written with the final letter curling downward.
My hands went cold.
I grabbed another envelope.
The handwriting.
My husband must have seen something change in my face.
“What is it?”
I didn’t answer.
I shoved the letters back into the box and stood so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
“Stay here.”
I didn’t answer.
He frowned. “Where are you going?”
I picked up the box and held it against my chest.
“To get the truth.”
Grandma opened the door looking annoyed.
“What on earth—”
I picked up the box.
I walked past her, set the box on the kitchen table, and pulled out several letters.
Then I dropped them in front of her.
Grandma pressed her lips together. I picked up one of the letters.
“Did you write this?”
