The first letter made us cry.
The second made us laugh through tears because Clara had included a recipe for soup I already knew by heart.
The third contained a photograph of her classroom from years ago. She had written on the back, My students asked why my sister the inventor never visits. I told them famous people are busy. Come prove me right.
I pressed the photo to my chest.
“I wasn’t famous,” I said.
“You should have been.”
“No.” I smiled faintly. “I should have been free.”
Clara reached across the table and took my hand.
“You are now.”
Not fully.
But more than yesterday.
That night, after Clara fell asleep on the couch with an old quilt over her knees, I sat by the window with Daniel’s secure phone on the table beside me.
