Chapter 3: What the Letter Said
Andrew looked at the letter in my hand.
Then he looked at me.
"Sit down," he said quietly.
"Tell me what this is first."
"Sit down, and I'll tell you everything."
I pulled out a chair.
My legs weren't steady enough to argue.
Andrew sat across from me.
He folded his hands on the table the way he does when he's choosing his words carefully — the way he does before he says something he knows will hurt.
"She's been writing to me for four months," he said.
The kitchen felt very small suddenly.
"Four months."
"The first one came in the mail.
I thought it was a mistake.
Then the second one came.
And the third."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I was trying to figure out how to tell you without destroying your relationship with her."
I set the letter down between us.
"Show me the others."
He went to the bedroom.
I heard the closet door, the sound of a box being moved.
He came back with a small stack — six envelopes, all in Eliza's handwriting, all addressed to Andrew.
I opened the first one.
It started with: *I think about you more than I should.*
My hands were steady.
I don't know how.
I read all six.
It took me about fifteen minutes.
Andrew sat across from me the entire time and didn't speak.
The letters weren't explicit.
They were worse than that.
They were tender.
Careful.
Full of small details — the way Andrew laughed, the way he held his coffee cup, the way he always made sure everyone at the table had what they needed before he sat down himself.
Details that only someone watching closely would notice.
Details that only someone who had been paying attention for a long time would collect.
The last letter was dated three weeks ago.
It said: *I know this is wrong.
But I also know that she doesn't see you the way I do.
I think, deep down, you know that too.*
I put it face-down on the table.
"Did you ever respond to her?" I asked.
"No."
"Not once."
"Not once.
I kept them because I didn't know what to do with them.
I thought — I don't know what I thought.
That it would stop on its own."
"And the wooden box tonight?
What was in it?"
Andrew was quiet for a moment.
"The first letter I ever wrote you.
The one from before we were married.
The one you gave to Eliza to hold onto when you moved apartments and were worried about losing it."
I stared at him.
"She had it," he said.
"She had it the whole time.
Her ex-husband found it in her things when they were dividing everything up.
He recognized your handwriting on the envelope.
He brought it to me because he didn't know what else to do with it."
I thought about that letter.
I had written it sitting on the floor of an empty apartment, the night before Andrew and I made things official.
Three pages.
Every honest thing I had ever felt about him.
I had given it to Eliza for safekeeping because I trusted her completely.
She had kept it.
And she had read it.
And she had used it as a map.
"She knew exactly what you meant to me," I said.
"She knew from the beginning."
Andrew didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
I stood up and walked to the window.
The street outside was dark and quiet.
Eliza's house was ten minutes away.
The light in her front room was still on.
"I need to talk to her," I said.
"Not tonight."
"Andrew—"
"Not tonight." His voice was firm but not unkind.
"You need to sleep first.
Whatever you say to her, you need to say it when you're not shaking."
I looked down at my hands.
He was right.
They were shaking.
I left the letters on the table and went to bed.
I didn't sleep.
I lay in the dark and thought about every cup of tea, every afternoon visit, every time Eliza had sat in my kitchen looking broken and I had felt nothing but love for her.
I thought about how long she had been watching my husband.
May you like
And I thought about the letter she had kept — the most honest thing I had ever written — folded and stored somewhere in her house like a secret she owned.
By morning, I had made up my mind.
