For a year, I spent my weekends caring for an elderly neighbor who became the family I didn’t know I needed. After her funeral, a lawyer handed me a note about a mysterious box in her attic. I thought it was a final gift. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Ma’am, do you need help? Please, get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
The elderly woman looked at me through the pouring rain.
“I’m perfectly capable of getting home, dear.”
Then one of her grocery bags split.
“I’ll drive you home.”
Apples rolled across the sidewalk. A can of beans disappeared beneath a parked car.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
I got out and crouched beside her, gathering what I could.
“Still perfectly capable?” I asked.
Apples rolled across the sidewalk.
She gave me a look.
“You’re rather bossy, aren’t you?”
“Only when someone’s determined to drown with her groceries. Come on, I’m Josette.”
That made her laugh.
Her name was Margaret, and she lived three houses down from me.
“You’re rather bossy, aren’t you?”
I was 47, recently divorced, and still getting used to living alone.
I thought I’d rescued a lonely neighbor that afternoon.
A year later, I’d learn how little I knew about her.
A few days later, I knocked on her door.
I thought I’d rescued a lonely neighbor.
“I’m going shopping. Do you need anything?”
She handed me a small list before I’d finished speaking.
“I was hoping you’d come, Josette.”
That became our routine.
Every Wednesday, I collected her grocery list. Most Saturdays, I stayed for tea.
That became our routine.
Soon, tea became lunch, crosswords, and arguments over television shows.
Margaret had opinions about everything.
“That man’s lying,” she’d announce during a mystery show.
“You’ve watched this episode before.”
“Maybe. But I knew he was lying before they confirmed it.”
“That man’s lying.”
One Saturday, she produced a basket of yarn.
“Sit down. I’m teaching you how to knit socks.”
“Why socks?”
“Because everyone should know how to make at least one useful thing.”
“Why socks?”
My first attempt looked nothing like a sock.
Margaret laughed until she had to put down her needles.
“Don’t worry, Jo. We’ll get there.”
Nobody had called me Jo before.
Somehow, it sounded right coming from her.
Nobody had called me Jo before.
After my divorce, I’d wondered how I’d become so invisible while trying to keep my marriage together.
Margaret noticed me without being asked.
If I looked tired, she made tea.
If I brought cookies, she insisted we share them.
“You’re allowed to enjoy something too, Jo.”
If I looked tired, she made tea.
One Saturday, Margaret was showing me how to fix a dropped stitch when the telephone rang.
She glanced at the screen and let it ring.
“Not answering?”
“Not today, Jo.”
She glanced at the screen.
“Everything all right?”
She picked up her knitting.
“Now, where were we?”
But there was one subject she never enjoyed discussing.
Her family.
“Everything all right?”
One afternoon, I noticed a photograph beside her bookshelf.
A younger Margaret stood beside a smiling woman and a little girl.
“Is that your daughter?”
“My sister and her girl. Trina.”
“She’s adorable. Do you see her often?”
“Is that your daughter?”
Margaret picked up the photograph.
“Not anymore.”
“Does she live far away?”
“Far enough, Jo. Are you finishing that sock before Christmas?”
“Not anymore.”
I let the subject drop.
A few months later, I found her sitting beside the telephone.
Her eyes were red.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?”
“Families are complicated, Jo.”
I let the subject drop.
“Tell me about it.”
She looked toward the window.
“Some people leave, and you never understand why.”
I wanted to ask about Trina.
Instead, I made sandwiches and stayed until she smiled again.
“Tell me about it.”
About a year after our first meeting, my phone rang early one morning.
“I’m Margaret’s niece,” the caller said. “My name’s Trina.”
I sat up.
“Is Margaret all right?”
“I’m sorry. She passed away in her sleep.”
“My name’s Trina.”
I looked through my window.
Margaret’s curtains were closed.
“She mentioned you often,” Trina added. “I thought you’d want to know. I found your number in her phonebook.”
“Thank you for calling, Trina. My sympathies to you.”
“She mentioned you often.”
I couldn’t manage anything else.
At the funeral, I cried harder than I’d expected.
Trina stood near the front, greeting people. She looked tired, and I wondered how long she’d been handling everything alone.
I couldn’t manage anything else.
Afterward, I approached her.
“Thank you for letting me know about Margaret.”
“Of course.”
“We spent nearly every Saturday together. She taught me to knit, although I’m still terrible at it.”
I approached her.
Trina smiled faintly.
“She used to knit all winter.”
“She was wonderful to me.”
Her expression changed.
“I’m glad somebody got to know that side of her.”
Trina smiled faintly.
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I’m glad she had a friend.”
She excused herself.
Three days later, Margaret’s lawyer called.
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Benson introduced himself and explained that Margaret had left instructions for him to contact me.
At his office, he handed me a sealed envelope.
Inside was a note in Margaret’s shaky handwriting.
“There’s a box in my attic with your name on it. What’s inside was never meant for anyone else.”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
“A box?”
“Margaret asked me to deliver that note after her passing,” he explained. “Trina is handling her belongings. You’ll need to arrange access with her.”
“Did she tell you what was inside?”
“No. She only asked that you receive her message.”
“A box?”
I thanked Mr. Benson and called Trina from my car.
“Margaret left something for me in her attic. Would you mind if I came by?”
There was a pause.
“She never mentioned it.”
I thanked Mr. Benson.
“She didn’t mention it to me either.”
“Come tomorrow morning. I’m sorting through the house anyway.”
Trina opened the door the following morning.
Margaret’s knitting basket still stood beside her favorite chair.
Trina opened the door.
For a moment, I expected her to call out from the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” Trina asked.
“Yes. It just feels strange being here.”
She glanced at the empty chair.
“Are you all right?”
“It does.”
She showed me upstairs.
The attic smelled of cardboard and old books.
Near a dresser, I found a wooden box with JO written across its lid.
My throat tightened.
“It does.”
Inside were several bundles of letters tied with ribbon.
A separate envelope lay on top.
I recognized Margaret’s handwriting.
A separate envelope lay on top.
“My dear Jo,
You always asked whether I needed anything. There was something I needed, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
These letters are for Trina. I wrote them over the years but never sent them.
I was too afraid.
I left them with you because I trust you to decide whether she should receive them. Please don’t feel obligated.”
“These letters are for Trina.”
Why had Margaret entrusted me with Trina’s letters?
I opened the oldest one.
“Dear Trina,
I should never have said what I said about your mother.
You were young. You had every right to take that job.
I was frightened of losing you, and I made you feel guilty for leaving.”
“You were young.”
Another letter was dated two years later.
“I miss you, Trina. I wish we could start again.”
“Why didn’t you send these?” I whispered.
I opened another.
I don’t know how many more years we have.
I opened another.
I remembered asking Margaret about her niece one Saturday.
“Did you two have an argument?”
“She took a job in another state.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reason to stop speaking.”
I remembered asking Margaret.
Margaret had looked away.
“I said something about her mother. Something awful.”
“Did you apologize?”
Margaret looked down.
“I’ve thought about it, Jo.”
“Did you apologize?”
Now I understood.
She’d written apologies for years without sending them.
And Trina had never come back.
Or so I believed.
Trina was wrapping dishes when I came downstairs.
