…”…you.” He walked back to his truck and drove away, whistling. I stood in my doorway holding forty-one letters from my sister and called the prison with shaking hands. I asked for her parole officer. When she came on the line, the first thing she said was, “Oh, thank God. We’ve been trying to reach you for two weeks.”
My sister had reported it herself. A month ago, she’d noticed something was wrong. The “me” writing back to her was too friendly. Too curious about the money. Too interested in when she’d be released. “She told me her sister would never write like that,” the parole officer said. “She said you’d never forgive her that easily. She said someone was pretending to be you.”
The money was from the fraud case that put my sister in prison. The court never found it all. Gary had spent two years trying to get her to tell him where it was. She finally gave him a fake location, on purpose, and told the warden. The FBI had been watching that location for three weeks.
On Thursday night, Gary drove out to a storage unit in the next county with a shovel and a flashlight. Federal agents were waiting inside. He was charged with mail theft, impersonation, and attempted theft. The post office fired him the next morning.
On Friday, my sister was released. I almost didn’t go. Then I read one of her real letters, the very first one, from six years ago, before Gary ever touched them. “I don’t expect you to answer. I just want you to know I’m sorry, every single day, and I’ll keep writing until you’re ready.”
I drove to the gate. She came out with one paper bag and stopped when she saw my car. We sat in the parking lot for an hour without saying much. Then I asked her if she was hungry. She was. We went to the diner where our mother used to take us. She ordered pancakes. I ordered the same. It was the first thing we’d agreed on in six years.
