As soon as I reached the station and spotted Daadi and Mammi waiting for me there, I could tell they had gotten my letter. Gone were the worried looks and shared glances from prior to my trip. Now they were all smiles, so glad to see me, so eager to hear of every last adventure, so relieved and pleased to know I had made my decision for the church at last.
Back at the house, after an effusive greeting from Timber, I sat at the table while Mammi served me a late lunch of ham and cheesy potatoes and green beans and my favorite peach and raspberry crumble. She and Daadi both joined me there as I ate, asking all about my father and Liz and Brady and how they were, and then catching me up on all the news from home and from Jake, who was doing fine at farrier school out in Missouri.
As my grandparents and I sat in the warm Amish kitchen, I couldn’t get over the quiet and peace that surrounded us, the lack of interruption. The absence of devices to divide us. Finally, I showed the two of them my mother’s photos from Germany, explaining what I had managed to conclude from the entire collection, that she’d taken pictures as a way to capture scenes reminiscent of home. Gazing at the photos, they both seemed deeply touched at the thought—and somehow deeply healed as well.
I didn’t want our time around the table to end, but before I saw Rachel, I wanted to take care of what lay locked inside the strongbox. Suddenly I didn’t think I could wait another minute.
I excused myself to unpack and headed up to my room.
I retrieved the key first from the cigar box and then removed the strongbox from my duffel. I felt a strange sense of calm as I inserted the key into the lock. I knew it would fit. I knew it would open the lock.
The key turned as easily as if it were only a lever to open a door. Sure enough, inside was a small stack of envelopes—letters from home, just as Dad had said.
I gingerly pulled the stack from the box and laid each one out on the bed in front of me, counting seven in all. Studying the exteriors of the envelopes, I noted that five of them were all in the same handwriting, and though they bore no return addresses, they had all been mailed to my mother. The other two envelopes had nothing on them at all, no addresses or stamps or postmarks or anything. Taking a quick peek inside each, I saw that they were both in my mother’s handwriting.
Perhaps those two were letters she’d been writing in return.
I sat back on the bed and considered how to proceed. After a moment, I reached out and arranged the five addressed envelopes by order of their dated postmark. I decided I would read through those first, in order, and save the other two—the ones she had written herself—for last.
With trembling hands, I picked up the oldest dated envelope and pulled out the letter from inside. Skimming its contents, I soon realized that it was a love letter, from someone named Jonah. He must have lived in Lancaster County, because throughout the whole thing he kept pleading with her to “come back home.” Setting that one aside, I continued on with the next and then the next. Each one was more of the same, filled with urgings to come home and pledges of undying affection—apparently unrequited—all from this Jonah guy, whoever he was. It wasn’t until I got to the fourth letter that the hairs on my arms began to stand on end.
As I read through various details in that note—about his family, about his personal life—I realized that this wasn’t some random guy named Jonah my mom had won the affection of. This was a Jonah I knew—and knew well. It was Uncle Jonah. Jonah Bowman. Cousin Anna’s father. Aunt Sarah’s husband.
I gasped, looking up from the note as if the man might materialize right there in the room in front of me.
Jonah had been in love with my mother before he married her sister?
I couldn’t believe it. In all the years I had been here, I’d never heard one whisper of rumor or insinuation about a relationship between my mother and her future brother-in-law. In fact, I was having trouble believing it now, until I continued my reading and put more of the pieces together. From what I was seeing here and from what my aunt Sarah had already told me, Jonah had courted both my mom and my aunt when the three of them were on their rumspringa. Apparently, it had become something of a love triangle the day he secretly confessed to my mother that he loved her, even though they both knew that Sarah loved him.
Feeling as if I were moving through a dream, I read the fifth note.
Dearest Sadie: I know you told me you don’t feel the same for me, but over time you could learn to love me. I know you could. I also know Sarah would understand eventually. She would forgive you. We are meant to be together, Sadie…
So many emotions were pounding inside my head as I tucked away his notes and moved on to the two unsent letters written in my mother’s handwriting. I sensed only a momentary jolt of guilt as I opened the flaps and withdrew each one. Still, I knew I was meant to read all of this. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I was meant to. Even my dad thought so.
I smoothed out the stationery on the older of the two letters and began to read. It had been dated the year I was born.
Dear Jonah,