In Absentia
The shoebox was worn at the corners, more heavily than Peggy remembered. The removal men had found it when they’d reluctantly searched the attic. Her fingers traced the fraying twine, trembling against its familiar texture. She lingered for a moment, then murmured, “The letters.”
“What’s in it, Mum?” Diane stood by the window, her arms crossed against the answer she already knew.
Peggy loosened the knot with care, the twine fraying at its edges. “Letters from my George, from his Army days. He’s still writing to me, you know,” she said, her tone peaceful but distant. “He always finds a way to reach me.”
Diane pressed her lips together but said nothing as Peggy opened the box. Inside, the letters lay in neat rows, their sharp words softened by time, the ink blurred where memory had worn it thin.
Peggy drew out the first one, unfolding it carefully, as though it might fall apart in her hands.
Margaret,
Three weeks in this hell, and all I can think about is how different things could’ve been. You trapped me here with your timing, didn’t you? But what’s done is done.
Her thumb brushed over the formal Margaret at the top of the page, a name he only used when anger got the better of him.
Peggy smoothed the paper, her fingers lingering over the words. “Poor George,” she said softly. “He gets so homesick. But he writes anyway, just to let me know he’s thinking of us.”
Diane turned away, gripping the edge of the sink. The cold counter pressed into her palms, anchoring her. “I’ll make tea,” she said, her voice tight.
Diane hadn’t planned to stay. She’d returned after George’s death for a quick check-in, nothing more. She hadn’t expected to find Peggy forgetting appointments, leaving the stove on, confusing the days of the week.
Nor had she expected the letters.
Now they were another thread pulling her back, stirring fragments of the arguments, the silences, the cold weight of his voice—everything she had worked so hard to leave behind. Even now, weeks later, Peggy sometimes picked up the letters as if for the first time, her voice soft and certain, responding to words only she could hear.
Day after day, Peggy sat by the window looking out onto the courtyard, where a breeze shifted the leaves of a single spindly tree. The box rested in her lap, a steady weight as she worked her way through the letters. She read them aloud, her voice warm, almost reverent.
Margaret,
You tied me to a life I never wanted. Every morning I wake up knowing I’m stuck here because of you and that baby. You call it love. I call it a prison sentence.
At the mirror in the corner, Diane looped a strand of pearls around her neck, tilting her head as she fastened the clasp. Peggy must have left them on the counter again. Diane turned the beads over absently, the rhythm of her fingers steady and thoughtless.
“Poor George,” Peggy said, smoothing the letter in her lap. “He was always dramatic when he missed us. But he stayed. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
The words broke through Diane’s quiet rhythm. She looked up, startled, and in the mirror, for just a moment, she saw her mother: hopeful, soft, the way Peggy had looked when George was about to come home on leave.
The illusion broke. Diane blinked, her own face staring back, blurred by memory. She could only recall the other side: George’s clipped tone, the heavy silences, and the way his answers never seemed to match the questions Peggy asked.
Diane unclasped the pearls, letting them fall into her hand. She turned from the mirror. “Right,” she said softly, as if the word might tip the balance between truth and silence.
Some letters made Peggy’s hands go still, the paper trembling slightly between her fingers.
Peg,
I keep writing these letters, and I don’t know why. It’s easier not to feel anything when I keep my thoughts to myself. But I write because I remember you standing at the station, holding Diane, smiling at me like I was someone worth waiting for. I don’t deserve it, but I can’t stop wanting to believe I do.
Peggy’s voice caught. “He never saw himself clearly,” she said softly, her fingers tracing the edges of the paper. “He was always more than he thought.”
Diane felt the air drain from the room. She remembered the station, too, her mother’s hopeful face alight as George stepped off the train. Diane had been too young to notice the stiffness in his shoulders, but not too young to feel how quickly his mood shifted once they were home.
And the weight of so many battles—the cold remarks over dinner, the slammed doors, the silences that stretched for days.
She left the room without a word.
That evening, Diane sat at her kitchen table, a single letter unfolded before her. She’d brought it home without telling her mother. Her fingers trembled as she carefully smoothed the paper, her movements deliberate, as though handling something fragile and dangerous.
Margaret,
You think this is love? Staying isn’t the same as caring. I hope you see that. But I guess it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.
Diane pressed her palms to her temples. The words burned in her memory, but it wasn’t just the letter. It was the weight of everything he had left behind—the arguments that never resolved, the spaces he had filled with anger that lingered even now.
She had left to escape the silence. Now it was all that remained, settling around her mother’s voice like dust.
The next morning, Diane found Peggy at her desk, her pen moving slowly across a blank sheet of paper. The box sat open beside her, its contents ordered like the memories she chose to keep.
“What are you writing, Mum?” Diane asked, stepping closer.
Peggy didn’t look up. “A letter to George. He’s written so many to me—it’s only fair I write back.”
Diane leaned over, her breath catching as she read the words on the page:
George,
I know it wasn’t easy, staying. But you did. Every day, you chose to stay. That’s what love looks like sometimes, isn’t it? Just the quiet act of staying.
I hope you knew how much I loved you for it.
Peggy folded the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope and placing it in the box among George’s.
“He’ll find it,” she said, her voice soft. “My George always does.”
Diane hesitated by the desk, her hand resting lightly on the lid of the box. Her gaze flickered to the envelope, the crispness of its edges standing out among the softened, timeworn letters. She could still hear the scrape of George’s voice, the way it cut through rooms and people, sharp and unyielding.
The faint smell of disinfectant drifted in from the hall, grounding her in the present. She looked at her mother, peaceful in the morning light, shadows gathering at the edges of her certainty. Diane drew in a slow breath and closed the box, letting memory choose its own truth.