wrong letter

She handed me a letter. She told me I should read it, we could talk about it tomorrow. I said sure, whatever she wants, went home, put the letter safely on my desk, along with some of the others I had--some I hadn't read, some I had. She was writing me a lot of letters lately, and sometimes I was too afraid to read them.

Eventually I got around to reading. I selected what I thought was the letter she'd given me earlier--it looked about the same, how was I to know?--and read it. She was angry. I'd hurt her with my words, with my silence, my actions and inactions. She accused me of things I hadn't done, and things I had. I grew angry. I'd already apologized for all that. Surely she knew that? I'd tried to make it up to her. She said it was enough. And she was still angry? She lied to me!

When she called me up to ask if I'd read it I swore and shouted. Told her she was a liar and told her she should tell me when she can't accept my apologies.

She didn't answer for a long while. When I finally said "Well?", in my voice thick with unrighteous anger, she said, softly, "I just wanted to say I love you." This confused me. I looked at the letter.

"'You ungrateful bastard'?" I said, quoting the salutation.

"No, that's not--that's not what it says," she said. Her voice was on the verge of tears. I had nothing more to say. It dawned on me that I'd been reading the wrong letter all along.