Margaret had opinions about everything.
“That man’s lying,” she’d announce during a mystery show.
“You’ve watched this episode before.”
“Maybe. But I knew he was lying before they confirmed it.”
“That man’s lying.”
***
One Saturday, she produced a basket of yarn.
“Sit down. I’m teaching you how to knit socks.”
“Why socks?”
“Because everyone should know how to make at least one useful thing.”
“Why socks?”
My first attempt looked nothing like a sock.
Margaret laughed until she had to put down her needles.
“Don’t worry, Jo. We’ll get there.”
Nobody had called me Jo before.
Somehow, it sounded right coming from her.
Nobody had called me Jo before.
After my divorce, I’d wondered how I’d become so invisible while trying to keep my marriage together.
Margaret noticed me without being asked.
If I looked tired, she made tea.
If I brought cookies, she insisted we share them.
“You’re allowed to enjoy something too, Jo.”
If I looked tired, she made tea.
***
One Saturday, Margaret was showing me how to fix a dropped stitch when the telephone rang.
She glanced at the screen and let it ring.
“Not answering?”
“Not today, Jo.”
She glanced at the screen.
“Everything all right?”
She picked up her knitting.
“Now, where were we?”
But there was one subject she never enjoyed discussing.
Her family.
“Everything all right?”
***
One afternoon, I noticed a photograph beside her bookshelf.
A younger Margaret stood beside a smiling woman and a little girl.
“Is that your daughter?”
“My sister and her girl. Trina.”
“She’s adorable. Do you see her often?”
“Is that your daughter?”
Margaret picked up the photograph.
“Not anymore.”
“Does she live far away?”
“Far enough, Jo. Are you finishing that sock before Christmas?”
“Not anymore.”
I let the subject drop.
A few months later, I found her sitting beside the telephone.
Her eyes were red.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?”
“Families are complicated, Jo.”
I let the subject drop.
“Tell me about it.”
She looked toward the window.
“Some people leave, and you never understand why.”
I wanted to ask about Trina.
Instead, I made sandwiches and stayed until she smiled again.
“Tell me about it.”
***
About a year after our first meeting, my phone rang early one morning.
“I’m Margaret’s niece,” the caller said. “My name’s Trina.”
I sat up.
“Is Margaret all right?”
“I’m sorry. She passed away in her sleep.”
“My name’s Trina.”
I looked through my window.
Margaret’s curtains were closed.
“She mentioned you often,” Trina added. “I thought you’d want to know. I found your number in her phonebook.”
“Thank you for calling, Trina. My sympathies to you.”
“She mentioned you often.”
I couldn’t manage anything else.
***
At the funeral, I cried harder than I’d expected.
Trina stood near the front, greeting people. She looked tired, and I wondered how long she’d been handling everything alone.
I couldn’t manage anything else.
Afterward, I approached her.
“Thank you for letting me know about Margaret.”
“Of course.”
“We spent nearly every Saturday together. She taught me to knit, although I’m still terrible at it.”
I approached her.
Trina smiled faintly.
“She used to knit all winter.”
“She was wonderful to me.”
Her expression changed.
“I’m glad somebody got to know that side of her.”
Trina smiled faintly.
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I’m glad she had a friend.”
She excused herself.
Three days later, Margaret’s lawyer called.
“What do you mean?”
***
Mr. Benson introduced himself and explained that Margaret had left instructions for him to contact me.
At his office, he handed me a sealed envelope.
Inside was a note in Margaret’s shaky handwriting.
“There’s a box in my attic with your name on it. What’s inside was never meant for anyone else.”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
“A box?”
“Margaret asked me to deliver that note after her passing,” he explained. “Trina is handling her belongings. You’ll need to arrange access with her.”
“Did she tell you what was inside?”
“No. She only asked that you receive her message.”
“A box?”
I thanked Mr. Benson and called Trina from my car.
“Margaret left something for me in her attic. Would you mind if I came by?”
There was a pause.
“She never mentioned it.”
I thanked Mr. Benson.
“She didn’t mention it to me either.”
“Come tomorrow morning. I’m sorting through the house anyway.”
***
Trina opened the door the following morning.
Margaret’s knitting basket still stood beside her favorite chair.
Trina opened the door.
For a moment, I expected her to call out from the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” Trina asked.
“Yes. It just feels strange being here.”
She glanced at the empty chair.
“Are you all right?”
“It does.”
She showed me upstairs.
***
The attic smelled of cardboard and old books.
Near a dresser, I found a wooden box with JO written across its lid.
My throat tightened.
“It does.”
Inside were several bundles of letters tied with ribbon.
A separate envelope lay on top.
I recognized Margaret’s handwriting.
A separate envelope lay on top.
“My dear Jo,
You always asked whether I needed anything. There was something I needed, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
These letters are for Trina. I wrote them over the years but never sent them.
I was too afraid.
I left them with you because I trust you to decide whether she should receive them. Please don’t feel obligated.”
“These letters are for Trina.”
Why had Margaret entrusted me with Trina’s letters?
I opened the oldest one.
“Dear Trina,
I should never have said what I said about your mother.
You were young. You had every right to take that job.
I was frightened of losing you, and I made you feel guilty for leaving.”
“You were young.”
Another letter was dated two years later.
“I miss you, Trina. I wish we could start again.”
“Why didn’t you send these?” I whispered.
I opened another.
I don’t know how many more years we have.
I opened another.
I remembered asking Margaret about her niece one Saturday.
“Did you two have an argument?”
“She took a job in another state.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reason to stop speaking.”
I remembered asking Margaret.
Margaret had looked away.
“I said something about her mother. Something awful.”
“Did you apologize?”
Margaret looked down.
“I’ve thought about it, Jo.”
“Did you apologize?”
Now I understood.
She’d written apologies for years without sending them.
And Trina had never come back.
Or so I believed.
***
Trina was wrapping dishes when I came downstairs.
Now I understood.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“Letters. They’re all addressed to you.”
She put down a plate.
“She wrote to me?”
“What was inside?”
“For years.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Trina, she regretted what happened.”
“You read them?”
“Some. Margaret said they were for you.”
Trina turned toward the sink.
“You read them?”
“Then perhaps she should’ve mailed them.”
“She missed you.”
Trina faced me.
“Please don’t tell me what my aunt wanted.”
I should’ve stopped.
“She missed you.”
But I remembered Margaret sitting beside the telephone, trying not to cry.
“She was lonely, Trina. I saw it.”
“You saw the last year of her life.”
“And where were you?”
Trina went still.
“She was lonely, Trina. I saw it.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked, “You really don’t know what happened, do you?”
“Then tell me.”
“You’ve already decided.”
She picked up her keys.
“I’d like you to leave now. Take the letters with you.”
“Then tell me.”
***
I walked home with the box under my arm.
I’d spent an entire year caring for Margaret. Surely that meant I understood her better than someone who hadn’t visited.
But that evening, I remembered another conversation we’d had months earlier.
Margaret had been sitting beside her telephone.
I drove home.
“Why don’t you call Trina?” I’d asked.
“I don’t think she’d answer.”
“Want me to help you write something?”
“No, Jo.”
“Why don’t you call?”
“Even a birthday card?”
Her voice had sharpened.
“Please leave it alone.”
I’d assumed she couldn’t bear another rejection.
Now I wondered whether I’d misunderstood.
“Even a birthday card?”
I opened the box again.
One letter began:
“I know you tried to see me last spring.”
Trina had tried to visit?
Margaret had never mentioned it.
Trina had tried to visit?
I searched the remaining letters, but none explained why Margaret had turned her away.
One ended with a sentence that troubled me.
“I wanted you to come home, but I couldn’t bear to hear you say you wouldn’t.”
I set the letter down.
Margaret hadn’t only been waiting.
I searched the remaining letters.
She’d been afraid of what Trina might say.
I picked up my phone and called Trina.
She didn’t answer.
So I sent a message.
“I was unfair to you today. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you without hearing your side.”
She didn’t answer.
There was no reply.
***
Two days later, I baked Margaret’s favorite cookies.
I packed half into a container, then stopped.
I’d spent years bringing people food whenever I didn’t know how to have an honest conversation.
There was no reply.
Cookies wouldn’t fix what I’d said.
I left them on the counter and called Trina again.
This time, she answered.
“Hello?”
“It’s Josette. Could we talk?”
Cookies wouldn’t fix what I’d said.
“About Margaret?”
“About how I treated you.”
A long silence followed.
“I’m at her house,” she finally said. “I’ll be here another hour.”
“I can come over.”
“About Margaret?”
***
Trina was sitting among boxes of photographs when I arrived.
“I accused you of abandoning someone I loved,” I said. “I didn’t know enough to say that.”
“You barely know me.”
“You’re right. I should’ve asked instead of judging you.”
“I didn’t know enough to say that.”
She studied me.
“I thought you’d come to defend her again.”
“I came to listen.”
Trina opened a cardboard box beside her chair.
“Then sit down.”
She studied me.
Inside were birthday cards, envelopes, and printed messages.
She handed me a card addressed to Margaret.
A postal mark showed it had been returned unopened.
“I mailed this five years ago. She sent it back unopened.”
She handed me a card.
I examined the date.
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t speak to me.”
Trina showed me two more returned envelopes, then a message she’d sent while visiting town.
“I’d really like to see you. Could we have lunch?”
I examined the date.
Margaret’s reply was brief.
“There’s no need.”
I stared at the words.
“When I got that job, I was excited,” Trina said. “Aunt Margaret practically raised me after Mom passed away. I thought she’d be proud.”
Margaret’s reply was brief.
“What happened?”
“She said I was abandoning her. I told her I needed to build my own life.”
Trina rubbed her thumb across a photograph.
“Then she said my mother would’ve been ashamed of me.”
I looked up.
“What happened?”
“She wrote about that.”
“Did she say what happened afterward?”
I shook my head.
“I came back the following weekend. I wanted to apologize for shouting.”
“Did she let you in?”
“She wrote about that.”
“No.”
Trina showed me a photograph of herself outside Margaret’s front door.
“My husband took that during another visit years later. She wouldn’t see me then either.”
I handed it back.
“She told me she missed your calls.”
I handed it back.
“I called every Sunday for months.”
“What made you stop?”
“She called me on my birthday once. I thought we might finally talk.”
Trina folded her hands.
“She asked whether I’d quit my job and moved back. When I said no, she hung up.”
“She called me on my birthday once.”
I thought about Margaret’s letters.
She hadn’t been waiting for Trina to return her calls.
She’d been refusing to answer them.
“Why didn’t you try again later?” I asked.
Trina looked toward the empty chair.
“Why didn’t you try again later?”
“Because every time I reached out, she found another way to hurt me.”
Her eyes filled.
“I loved her, Josette. But I couldn’t keep proving it by letting her punish me.”
I looked at the returned letters.
All those years I’d spent trying to keep my marriage together.
Her eyes filled.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Trina wiped her cheek.
“She was good to you. I’m glad about that.”
“She was.”
“But that wasn’t the aunt I knew at the end.”
“She was.”
I looked at Margaret’s photograph on the table.
For the first time, I could see that both women had been telling the truth.
***
I reached for the box I’d brought with me.
“There’s something I want to give you.”
I looked at Margaret’s photograph.
Trina looked at the letters.
“Why didn’t she send them?”
“I can’t answer that. She said she was afraid.”
Trina gave a sad smile.
“Why didn’t she send them?”
“She hated admitting she was wrong.”
“She wrote that she regretted what she said about your mother. She also wrote about your graduation.”
Trina touched the ribbon.
“She remembered that?”
“There’s a photograph tucked inside.”
Trina touched the ribbon.
She loosened the ribbon but didn’t open the first letter.
“Are you hoping I’ll forgive her?”
“No. But these are yours, and you should decide what to do with them.”
Trina picked up the oldest envelope.
She read it slowly.
“Are you hoping I’ll forgive her?”
Then she opened another.
When she reached the third, she stopped.
“She kept my graduation picture.”
I nodded.
“She took the photo out before returning my card.”
I nodded.
Trina held the photograph between her fingers.
“I thought she’d thrown everything away.”
“She could’ve apologized while she was alive.”
“She should have.”
Trina placed the letter beside the others.
“She should have.”
“Thank you for bringing these.”
I helped her pack the remaining photographs.
***
Four days later, someone knocked on my door.
Trina stood outside holding Margaret’s knitting basket.
I helped her pack.
“I found this while packing away the living room.”
I stepped aside.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Maybe later.”
She lifted the basket.
I stepped aside.
“Aunt Margaret tried teaching me once. I was terrible.”
“So was I.”
Trina smiled.
“Could you show me?”
I pulled two chairs toward the table and took out the needles.
“Sit down. I’m teaching you how to knit socks. Apparently, everyone should know how to knit something useful.”
