For several seconds, I couldn’t make sense of the words on the page.
My eyes moved across Jack’s handwriting, but my mind refused to accept what I was reading.The letter began simply.
My darling Emma,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.
I pressed one hand over my mouth.
Jack had always written my name that way—slightly tilted, the E larger than it needed to be. I had seen his handwriting on birthday cards, grocery lists, little notes he’d slipped into my lunch when we were teenagers.
But never like this.
Never from the grave.
The woman stood silently on my porch while I read.
I almost forgot she was there.
Jack’s letter continued.
I know you’re angry with me already.
You probably have questions about the woman standing in front of you.
Please don’t blame her.
Her name is Claire.
And she isn’t my lover.
My knees nearly gave way.
I looked up at the woman.
“Claire?” She nodded.
Tears slid down her face.
I looked back at the letter.
Advertisement
She’s my sister.
I read the sentence three times.
Then I actually laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
It was the kind of laugh that comes when your mind has been pushed too far and simply stops knowing what emotion to choose.
“That’s impossible.” Claire didn’t answer.
I looked at her sharply.
“Jack was an orphan.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t have a sister.”
Claire swallowed.
“He didn’t know he had one.”
The world seemed to shift beneath my feet.
I stepped backward into the house.
Claire remained outside.
