Come home soon. The inn is much quieter without you, and it doesn’t suit her.
Love,
Grandma
Letter Two
Elsie, my Elsie,
Do you remember the boy who stayed here once, years ago? Quiet as a fox, soft blond hair, always watching the stairs like he wanted to know what secrets they kept. You shared a plum tart with him in the kitchen. I pretended not to see, but I did.
He kissed you in the corner, quick and sweet, like he was afraid the moment might vanish. Your first kiss. I wanted to tuck it away for you in case you ever forgot.
All my love,
E
Letter Three
Darling girl,
I don’t know exactly what I said that made you leave, but I keep replaying that day in my head, trying to find the words I should’ve chosen. Sometimes mothers and grandmothers make the mistake of holding too tightly, and I fear I’ve done that to you. If I pushed you away by wantingyou too close, forgive me. I’d take it back if I could.
Always,
Grandma
Letter Four
Elsie,
Where have you gone? The house creaks with your absence, and I don’t know how to live in silence. I am angry with you, if you want the truth. Angry that you’d vanish without a word, that you’d let me go on setting two places for breakfast out of habit, then one, then none. But I suppose anger is just love turned sour in its waiting.
Come back. Or don’t. But I hope one day you write me, so that I may be able to send these letters back to you in good conscience.
E
Letter Five
My heart,
I saw a pair of shoes on the stairs and thought they were yours. I spoke aloud before I realized I was alone. The inn misses you. I do, too.The lavender won’t dry the same way without you hanging it crooked on the line.
You are my marrow, Elsie. No absence can change that.
Grandma
Letter Six
Sweet pea,
The roses out front bloomed all at once this year. I cut a dozen and filled the blue vase, the one you always insisted made them look regal. They’re wilting already, but I can’t bring myself to toss them. Some things I hold on to too long, I know. But that’s the way of me, and maybe the way of you, too.
Grandma
More pages. More ink. I can barely see the words through the blur. Guilt comes first, then anger, then something worse: the slow dawning that I have carried the wrong version of her in my head for years.
I thought she was disappointed in me. Thought she believed I’d failed her. All this time, I’ve held on to that, certain she closed the door before I could. And now—here—she’s begging for me to come home. Apologizing.
