"She was afraid you'd reject her."
Grandma wiped her eyes.
"Then she should have asked."
I showed her the part about our family's hardship.
She read it slowly.
"She knew?" she whispered.
I nodded.
"Would you have accepted her help?"
"When your father lost his job? James, I would have accepted help from anyone."
She folded the letter.
Then she said something I hadn't expected.
"I forgave Eleanor more than 20 years ago."
I stared at her.
"Twenty years?"
"At least."
"Why didn't you tell her?"
"Because I was afraid she wouldn't want to hear from me."
We sat in silence.
Two women who'd loved each other like sisters had spent decades afraid to make the same phone call.
And now one of them was dead.
I brought the books to Grandma's house the next afternoon.
She stood beside the boxes, recognizing titles she'd last seen as a teenager.
Then she found a small blue hardcover.
Its spine had been repaired with brown tape.
