Sometimes, like now, I remember how happy we were in that little two-bedroom bungalow in Hollister. I loved waking up with you every morning and snuggling Brianna between us. And I never minded living on a budget. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to buy this big, expensive house—a “surprise,” you said. After that, it was the boat and a couple of fancy cars. And to pay for everything, you had to build up the agency with more talent and take on the theater, which meant spending more time on the road than at home.

I never asked for this, Burke—not the house, not the cars, not any of it. All I ever wanted was you and me and Brianna together.

I know you take pride in the fact that your family lives in a showplace with a view of the lake, and that you work hard to provide the best of everything for us. But in all this time, you never once asked me what I wanted. If you had, I would have answered with one word—you.

The letter ended abruptly, without a closing or a signature, as if Kate had exhausted her supply of words. Or maybe she’d heard Brianna stirring and gone to check on her.

Allison folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope. What had she learned from this letter? That Burke’s workaholic nature hadn’t changed and probably never would? She already knew that. But Kate’s frustration had come as a surprise. The woman hadn’t been a paragon of patience and unconditional love after all. She’d struggled against loneliness and anger, and she hadn’t been afraid to express herself—not in the letter at least.

The letter had offered some insights into the marriage and how Kate had coped with her work-obsessed husband. But it wasn’t enough. Evidently Burke hadn’t changed much over the years. But how had Kate made the journey from frustrated young wife to the loving, accepting woman who’d written about her cancer?

Allison slipped the letter back into the manila envelope with the others. By now, she knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d read all the letters in order—not in a single sitting, but one by one, giving herself time to study, ponder, and hopefully learn from each of them.

Upending the envelope, she dumped the letters onto the desk and began sorting them. Going by what she’d seen, Kate hadn’t dated her letters. Only the blurred and faded postmarks, some barely readable, told her when they’d been mailed.