I dig deeper. Another photo—her in a pale dress, barefoot in the pasture, holding a wildflower. The same sky stretched behind her that I can see now through the barn window.
She looks happy. Whole.
This woman is a mystery to me.
A stranger.
Underneath the photos is a small tin bod, the kind used for keepsakes. It’s dented, the latch stiff with rust. I pry it open, heart pounding.
Inside: a few folded notes tied with blue ribbon, a pair of earrings, and a silver lighter engraved with initials.
J.D.
I run my thumb over the letters.
John Denver.
My throat tightens. I picture my biological father—the man who can barely look at me without flinching—and I can’t reconcile him with this. The boy in the photos who smiled like the world hadn’t broken him yet.
I take one of the letters from the tin. The paper is thin, the handwriting looping and familiar. I read the first few lines before my vision blurs.
Emma,
I said you were too young to understand, but you do. You’ve always understood me. The way you stare at me, like I am something you should want, like you can’t fathom how much I love and you’ll hate yourself for loving me. But I will always be with you. No one can take away what we have. No matter who your parents are or where you are from.
You will always be mine.
John.
I drop the letter like it burns.
It lands beside a small music box. The kind with a tiny crank o the side. I wind it without thinking.
The melody is soft, fractured from age, notes stuttering in the still air. The same lullaby she used to hum when storms shook the windows.
Something cracks inside of me.
I sit there on the dirt floor surrounded by her things, the ghosts of her choices pressing in on me from every direction. The sketches. The perfume. The letter. The lighter. The proof she was more than everyone says—and maybe worse than I ever wanted to believe.
The air grows heavier, hotter. Dust clings to my skin. The music box winds down, the last note lingering in the air until it fades completely.
When I finally stand, my legs tremble. I pack the items back carefully, though my hands are shaking. The photo of her and John ends up on top. Her smile feels like a lie now. Or maybe a warning.
I close the box, something on the bottom catching my eyes.
More initials.
E.B.
Emma? The one from the letter? Why would my mother have these?
Shaking off the grim feeling settling over me, I set the box aside and look around the barn again.
A newspaper article catches my attention.
Emma Barrington, prominent wife of John Denver dies in fiery blaze.
God.
