What does that mean?
Jake took out of the backpack.
My mother died three years ago.
I felt a lump in my throat.
I am so sorry.
“Before he died,” he left me a box. With photos, documents and letters.
About Richard?
Yes.
Sarah intervened:
We don’t know if they are authentic.
Jake turned to her.
That’s why I came.
I watched the envelope.
Give It To Me.
Sarah grabbed my arm.
Mom, no.
I’ve been free of charge.
It is my home. It was my
husband. And it’s my life. Give me the envelope, Jake.
There was a photo inside.
Richard.
Linda.
And I.
It was made in our garden eight years ago, just a few weeks before Richard died.
Behind the photo, Linda wrote:
“Margaret doesn’t remember.”
I felt a thrill.
What do I not remember?
