She stepped inside, into the crowded warmth, into the cave breath and the body heat and the smell of too many people living too close together. She looked around at the corridor, at the bluff face visible through the gaps, at the system that Silas had dreamed and I had built.
“It works,” she said, as though the evidence of her own eyes were not enough. “It works.”
“Your grandfather—” She stopped, swallowed, started again. “Your grandfather wrote to me after your mother died. He wanted me to send you to him.”
I had known this. Jonah had told me. But hearing it from her mouth was different.
“He sent money,” she continued. “$10 for rail and wagon fare. I—” She closed her eyes. “I thought this place was unfit. I thought he was unsound. I kept the letter. I deposited the money in the house account. I never told you.”
I did not say anything. The cabin was very quiet. Every family who had come to me for shelter was watching. Every person who had once laughed at the Ren girl was listening.
“I was wrong.” Mrs. Vale opened her eyes. They were wet. “I thought I was protecting you from a mad old man. I see now that I was protecting myself from looking foolish.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a yellowed envelope. The paper was soft with age. The ink was faded, but I could still read the address: To Miss Eliza Ren, care of the Monroe Female Relief House.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I kept you from him. I’m sorry he died alone.”
I took the letter. I did not open it. I already knew what it said.
“I forgive you,” I said, “not because you chose well, but because I will not let your choice become the shape of my life.”
She nodded. Tears ran down her face. She did not wipe them away.
