Opening The Box

Mary McCorvey
Jul 4, 2025
6 min read

Originally published on Mary McCorvey's Substack.

This week, I made a stunning discovery.

But before I get to that, a reminder.

In the last issue of Opening The Box, I wrote a letter to Rob, the first one I’d written in decades. I just wrote what came to mind, as I’d always done. No edits, no second thoughts. No wild declarations. No literary marvels. Just simple words that bubbled up.

It was like meeting an old friend for coffee that you haven’t seen in years.

Too much to catch up on and a question of where, even, to begin.

“Hello, I love you?” But then, that wouldn’t be news.

But the excitement inside…it was as if he could hear the words I was writing and experience them.

This week, I withdrew another letter from The Box.

It was 24 pages, written front and back, from edge to edge, like all the others. It still surprises me to think of the hundreds of pages that are in that box.

Along the way, the letter had been stapled for some reason, never folded in half or in thirds like the others. On the upper left corner near the staple were two brown spots, one circular, as if a drop had pooled there, and the other a rectangle, slightly smeared into the first line of text. A stain from a bit of chocolate, or an odd accumulation of rust? I’ll never know where they came from.

On page eight, about a third of the way down, I made the stunning discovery. I’m almost certain that Rob has a box of my letters.

Here’s why I think so:

I have lived my life for so long as if I’d die at any moment. Pieces all in place, confident that there were no loose ends or regrets. Since admitting, acknowledging, learning, that I love you I have had my pieces out of place. No regrets for sure but a loose end that defies being tied.

What happens to all of the letters you’ve written, the cards you’ve selected and notes, the tangible reminders of you that are slowly accumulating.

I foresee a huge box of stuff up the road. I know I will want to steal away years from now and read and hold them. They are precious to me because they are yours. I have told no one about you, therefore I have no one I can say, “hey, when I can’t get to them, take them so no one gets hurt.” A safe deposit box is too far away. Put a note to, “please destroy this box unopened,” on the box? Right, count on that. What to do?

Hmmm. There’s your black stocking – how unashamed you were to let me explore with frightened, inquisitive hands. Your first card and your last book and the volumes to follow.

I’m not a very selfish person but I, in this instance, choose to hold onto these very important artifacts. These physical remnants of you. Though I know what’s there and don’t really need them, I want them. What to do?

I sometimes think of us as dumb ole folks hanging, sometimes as lovers. I like sitting at the table with nothing but our shirts on, and talking.

You should know that I love you, Mary Louise. I don’t think about it much, just feel it. I could wonder if I’ve made myself love you to justify my attraction or permutate this line of thinking endlessly. But I just got what I have – bare-bones, no frills and I love you.

Mary, what is it, and what do you think? I think I’d like to lounge scantily dressed with you and read and talk and make love. Goodnight, you knucklehead.

Now, my letter to him.

Dear Rob,

Good God, you have a box too? I must have read this part of your letter many years ago but for whatever reason, I always assumed that you disposed of my missives. But you kept them, at least for awhile.

I moved my box nine times, never once opening it, knowing what I’d find inside would make me question my own life choices. Then, when Daniel and I separated and I moved out west, I wasn’t strong enough to experience you yet. I had years to go before I called the locksmith. But when I did, I embarked on this amazing adventure.

I’m so curious to know if you moved your box too, or whether there came a time when you couldn’t keep it, for your own reasons. You called yourself selfish for wanting to keep my letters. Well, stamp selfish on my hand in bold black ink. I kept every word you wrote, every card you selected, every candy wrapper we saved, because they were sweets we shared.

Dreams surround me about what your life is like now. All the years that have gone by, with the happy milestones of graduations and weddings and children and grandchildren and hopefully, little illness and no divorces.

Did Deanna ever see your box? Did she ask what was in it? Did you tell her the truth? Or did she, perhaps, just know? Hard for me to imagine she would be okay with you keeping it. If Daniel had kept letters from his affairs – yes, note the plural use of the word – in a locked box, it would have been extremely difficult.

Or maybe it was labeled something funny, like Sam's junior varsity letters and athletic socks?

Daniel knew I had a locked box from before we were married, and never asked. I suppose he just assumed I was past whatever was inside and kept it for my own reasons. As long as I was faithful, and I was, it really didn’t matter. But oh, it did.

You have been a part of my life, Rob, since the moment we locked eyes. For that year we were together, it was as if we lived inside one another, even at night when we tried to join each other on an astral plane. I laugh when I recall that I told you I’d meet you on top of the St. Louis arch. I believe we almost made it there, one night.

To think that you could have my letters makes me very happy. I guess that’s selfish, but I’m being honest. I would love to think of you experiencing some of the same things I am, when reading yours.

I’m not sure how you would react if I told you, like I’m trying to convey to you in this unorthodox way, that I’m sharing our story with quite a few people.

Almost always, I’m asked:

“Is he still alive?”“Yes.”

“Do you know where he is?”“Yes,” I say.

“Will you contact him?”“No,” I say. “If we are meant to meet, it will happen.”

Of course you know I will always keep looking for you. Not with morose longing, but with a lingering anticipation I have carried for all these years. I’ve never felt sad when I’ve looked for you, only a thought of, “Well, not today.” And I went on my way.

What does it mean that our desires were to keep our letters and cards? Does that make us all the more heinous because we not only were lovers but have been callous enough to risk hurting others? Or is there just a hint of, I only have one life, and this experience was a part of it, therefore I justify keeping them?

I don’t have the answers. I only know the choices I’ve made, and I’m living with them. I wish you peace with whichever way you’ve decided, and that you haven’t lived all these years harboring a feeling of having a loose end – my letters – out there. It would make me sad if, instead of happiness, they brought you worry. But there I go again, being selfish.

I love you, Rob. I’ll read again soon, and I’ll write again soon. I won’t ever give you these letters, as I gave you the others. But perhaps you’ll see them anyway.

Always Yours, Mary

I remain stunned at the thought that he could have a box of my letters.

What would prompt him to open them? Is it possible that in March, 2025, he felt a strong sensation to open his box, just as I did? I wouldn’t be surprised, I guess. I pray that if he did, the experience was just like the one I’ve had.

What if he shared with friends? What if he didn’t? I would be all right either way. As you can tell, I’ve made my decision about that, so no going back from here. Apparently I’m willing to be judged and found wanting, which wouldn’t be the first time.

Thank you for spending your precious time with me.

Until next time, remember:

Heartbeats are Finite.Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary