I’ve loved my mother’s desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it  as mother sat writing letters.Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be the most wonderful thing in the world.Years  later, during her final illness, mother kept different things for my sister and brother.“But the desk. ” she’d said again, “It’s for Elizabeth.”I never saw her angry, never saw her  cry.I knew she loved me: she showed it in action.But as a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter.They never happened.And a opened between us.I was “too  emotional”.But she “lived on the surface”.As years passed I had my own family.I loved my  mother and thanked her for our happy family.I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me.I posted the letter and waited for her answer.None came.My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally, peace—it seemed that nothing happened.I couldn’t be sure that the letter had even got to mother.I only  knew that I had written it, and I could stop divying to make her into someone she was not.Now  the present of her desk told, as she’d never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work.I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside—a photo of my  father and a one—page letter, folded and refolded many times.Give me an answer, my letter  asks, in any way you choose.Mother, you always choose the act that speaks louder than words.