THE LETTER KEEPER

Margaret Chen had been the postmaster of Millbrook for thirty-seven years, and in all that time, she had never opened a piece of mail that wasn't addressed to her. Until today. The letter had arrived three weeks ago, addressed to Mrs. Eleanor Hartwell at 42 Maple Street-a house that had stood empty for two years since Eleanor's passing. Margaret had done what she always did with mail for the deceased: she'd set it aside, hoping a family member might eventually come to collect it. But this letter was different.

It had come back twice, marked "Return to Sender," and each time, Margaret had dutifully sent it on its way. Now it sat on her desk again, and something about the careful handwriting, the way the sender had written "Please" in small letters beneath the address, made her pause. The return address read: "James Hartwell, Sunset Manor Care Facility, Phoenix, Arizona." Margaret's heart squeezed. She remembered Eleanor mentioning a son who lived far away, someone she hadn't spoken to in years. The old woman had died alone, and Margaret had always wondered about that son, about the silence between them that had stretched across decades and miles. Against every regulation she'd ever followed, Margaret carefully opened the envelope. Dear Mom, I know I have no right to write to you after all these years. I know I was stubborn and proud, and I know I hurt you when I left after Dad's funeral. I said things I didn't mean because I was angry-angry at him for leaving, angry at the world, angry at myself for not being there enough when he was sick. I'm writing because I'm sick now too. The doctors say I have maybe six months. I don't have anyone here, Mom. Sarah left me ten years ago, and the kids... well, they're busy with their own lives. I find myself thinking about home, about you, about the way you used to make blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings and how you never gave up on Dad's garden even after he couldn't tend it himself. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm hoping maybe you might want to see me one more time. I've been saving money for a plane ticket. I just need to know if you'd want me to come home. I love you, Mom. I never stopped loving you, even when I was too proud to say it.