I sat on the edge of my bed and looked over at my school trunk. Up until that moment, I had been sure it would accompany me to Ditte and Beth’s house in Bath. I read Ditte’s letter again. My love, as always. I screwed up the letter, threw it on the floor and ground it under my foot.

Da and I ate dinner in silence. I don’t think Ditte had even bothered to discuss it with him.

“Early start tomorrow, Essy,” he said as he took the plates to the kitchen.

I said goodnight and climbed the stairs.

Da’s room was almost dark, but when I pulled back the curtains, the last light of the long day came in. I turned to the wardrobe. “Open sesame,” I whispered, longing for an earlier time. I reached past Lily’s dresses and brought out the polished box. It smelled of beeswax, recently applied. I opened it and strummed the letters with my funny fingers, as if they were strings on a harp. I wanted Lily to speak. To give me the words that would convince Da to keep me. But she was silent.

My strumming stopped. The envelopes at the end were out of tune, not blue or white but the cheap undyed brown of Cauldshiels. I took out the last and moved to the window to read what I had written.

I remembered every word. How could I not? I had written them over and over and over again. They were not the words I had chosen. Those words had been torn up. Your father will only worry, said Miss McKinnon. Then she dictated something appropriate. Again, she said, as she tore the new pages. Neater, or he’ll think you are not improving, not trying. They are a jolly group of girls…a wonderful excursion…perhaps I will become a teacher…I managed an A on my history test. My marks were the only truth. Again, she said. Don’t slouch. The other girls had gone to bed. I sat in that cold room until the clock struck midnight. You have been spoiled, Miss Nicoll. Your father knows this as well as anyone. Complaining about mild discomforts will only prove the point. Then she laid out the last three attempts and asked me to choose the one that showed the best penmanship. Not the last. It was almost illegible. My funny fingers were bent as if still holding a pen. The pain of moving them was unbearable. That one, Miss McKinnon. Yes, dear, I think so too. Now off to bed.

And here it was. Treasured, as Lily’s letters were treasured. False words giving false comfort to a man forced to be mother and father both. Perhaps I was a burden.