“I know.”
“Christmas is when people come home.”
Margaret’s eyes glistened.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
Eli returned to the letter.
There is one more thing I must tell you. Before I became ill, I discovered that the woman who raised Margaret died owing money to a man who has no right to claim it. Margaret has been carrying that burden as if it were a debt of her own. I tried to help her, but she would not accept my money. She will tell you she can work, and she will mean it. Do not confuse her need for a safe place with a lack of pride.
If you are able to offer her a place in your home, do so as a friend first. Let her have a room of her own, a wage if she works, and the freedom to decide whether she wishes to build a life beside you. Do not make promises you cannot keep, and do not demand affection because you have offered shelter.
I know you, Eli. You will think this is all too complicated. You will want a clear arrangement with clear duties. You will tell yourself that a marriage is the simplest answer, because a marriage can be written down and understood. But love is not made safe by a contract, and a home is not made whole by filling an empty chair.
If Margaret and you come to love one another, I will be glad. If you do not, then I will still be glad if Clara grows up knowing that a woman may choose her own life and that a man may honor that choice.
Please forgive me for leaving you with so many things to learn.
I love you. I love our little girl. And I want you both to be happy, even if happiness looks different from what we planned.
Your loving wife,
Anne.
The letter slipped slightly in Eli’s hand.
For a while, the only sound was the storm and the soft crackle of the fire.
Anne.
He had not heard her name spoken aloud in weeks without feeling the immediate ache of absence. The letter had brought her into the room with such force that he almost expected to hear her footsteps in the kitchen.
He looked at Margaret.
“You knew all of this?”
“I knew what she wrote. I didn’t know whether you would believe it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me in your first letter?”
“I did. You said you wanted a practical arrangement, and that you preferred to discuss the future rather than revisit your late wife’s illness. I thought perhaps the letter would be better delivered in person.”
“You could have written again.”
“I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was afraid you would withdraw the offer before I could explain. And because I had begun to want to come here for reasons that were my own.”
His gaze sharpened.
“What reasons?”
Margaret looked down at her hands. They were reddened and raw from the cold. One finger bore a small scar, and the nails were short, practical, and clean.
“I wanted to leave Philadelphia,” she said. “I wanted to stop living in a boardinghouse where every winter brought another rise in rent. I wanted work that mattered. I wanted to see the country beyond the city streets. And I wanted a family, though I knew that wanting one did not mean I could simply step into another woman’s place.”
“You thought you could become Clara’s mother?”
“No. I thought I might become someone she trusted.”
Eli looked at his daughter. She had climbed onto the rug near the hearth and was carefully arranging wooden stars in a row.
“Clara already has a mother,” Margaret continued. “She always will. I would never try to take that away from her.”
The words were simple. They were also the first thing Margaret had said that made Eli feel he could breathe.
He folded the letter along its original creases.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You should have trusted me to hear it.”
“Yes.”