I covered my mouth.
“Samuel.”
“Yes?”
“Did Walter’s mother intercept these?”
“I think the next box explains more.”
There were letters from me too.
Not originals I had written to Walter.
Copies.
I recognized my handwriting.
Walter, please tell me why.
Another:
If you loved someone else, just say it.
Another:
I won’t write again.
I stared.
“I mailed these.”
Samuel nodded.
“How did he get them?”
“He didn’t.”
“What?”
“Not until much later.”
The next folder contained a letter written by Eleanor Whitmore.
Walter’s mother.
Dated 1998.
Twenty-eight years after Walter left.
She was dying.
Walter,
There is something I must confess before I die.
My hands went numb.
Eleanor admitted everything.
Walter’s father, George, had discovered our plan to leave.
He despised my family.
Not because we were poor.
Because my father had supported workers during a labor dispute at Whitmore Manufacturing.
George considered him disloyal.
When Walter announced he intended to marry me, George threatened to fire my father and blacklist him with other local manufacturers.
