But he photographed the condition and preserved the envelopes.
When he returned to his sister's house, he carried the bundle inside a protective folder.
Nia was sitting on the sofa with Ava.
She looked up.
Then saw the purple ribbon.
Her face changed.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
Marcus sat beside her.
"I found them."
Nia stared.
Then whispered.
"All of them?"
He nodded.
"Every birthday letter."
Her eyes filled immediately.
For a moment, she seemed unable to speak.
Then she reached toward the folder.
Marcus handed it to her.
She touched the ribbon gently.
It was the same ribbon her mother used to tie around birthday gifts when Nia was little.
For several seconds, the girl simply held it.
Then she began crying.
Not the frightened crying Marcus had heard in the store.
Something deeper.
Grief that had been held back for months.
Relief.
And the aching realization that her mother's words had been close enough to touch while someone made her believe they no longer existed.
Marcus put one arm around her.
Nia leaned against him.
And for several minutes, neither tried to speak.
Vanessa admitted she had taken the letters during a later meeting arranged through counsel.
Her explanation began with the household reorganization.
She said the chest occupied too much emotional space in the home, that Nia kept turning to her mother's belongings whenever the family had a disagreement, and that Vanessa felt like an outsider in her own marriage.
Marcus listened.
Then asked why the birthday envelopes were placed in storage.
She said she thought Nia depended on them too much.
For several seconds, Marcus stared.
The explanation made him feel almost physically ill.
Nia was a child who'd lost her mother.
Those letters weren't an unhealthy attachment someone needed to break.
They were gifts from a dying parent.
A way to help her daughter feel remembered through milestones she would otherwise face without her.
Marcus looked toward Vanessa.
"Did you read the letter for twelve?"
She lowered her eyes.
Then nodded.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Vanessa began crying.
She said she'd been jealous.
Not of a living woman who could argue with her.
Of a woman who was gone but still loved.
She believed Marcus's family compared her unfavorably with his first wife.
She believed Nia's attachment to the keepsakes meant the girl would never fully accept her as a parent.
Instead of respecting that grief, Vanessa tried to control it.
She moved the letters.
Hid the jewelry.