I need HELP Which detail best supports the conclusion that the main conflict in the story is Charles's inner conflict.
A)The author omits the conversation between Jen and Charles.
B) The author provides glimpses into how Charles lives now.
C)The author includes a few of Jen's thoughts about Charles.
D)The author details Charles's thought processes.

He pulled the string on the hanging light in the attic. The boxes didn't look familiar. But on one he recognized his mother's handwriting — neat, practically systematic, even without guiding lines. CHARLES' LETTERS.
He lifted the lid. The papers weren't dirty — the box had kept out the dust — but they gave off a curious smell. Mold? he wondered. Like the old bookstores back at college. Maybe it wasn't mold, but age — like the difference in men past the midpoint of life, as his wife liked to say and he hated to hear.
The letters he pulled out were laid flat, with the original folds reversed and then smoothed out; some had the envelope paper-clipped on. The topmost was from Jen Crone, writing from her post-graduation trip to Spain; his mother's house was the only address she had for him. Her letter was a dull litany of Points of Interest, amateur travel writing, stale jokes: everything was "majestic," or "awesome." Or just "okay." Even her loopy script on the page offended him. She didn't even ask how he was.
He hadn't seen this letter till months after its arrival, when he visited from San Francisco; his mother had handed it to him as another obligation he'd neglected, then gone to cook him dinner. He'd dropped it on a side table where he hoped she wouldn't notice. Later his mother left him messages about it; she said, when she finally reached him, that he owed that girl a reply. Throw it away, he'd said, I don't want to see it, I don't want to talk about it.
Instead she saved it, along with other letters he'd only heard about from her and told her he didn't want, letters from relatives chronicling tedious seasons and inviting him to visit, and from old friends doing the same; ridiculous letters from people he’d known in some way but who didn't seem, from what they wrote, to know anything about him. No, he'd say, throw them away. But she saved them.
He sat cross-legged with letters piled next to him. Through the small slatted window he saw night had come. The house was very quiet now; nothing outside but the occasional soft rush of cars, distant dogs barking, a voice calling; nothing inside but the hum of the electricity to the light, as it had been when he was a boy, bursting to escape to where there was some noise and life.
And suddenly he was impatient and fidgety. Why was he even looking at these? He didn't want the furniture, he didn't want the appliances, he didn't want the house. What would he do with any of this? And he certainly didn't want these.
Why did it matter to him that she had kept these things of his? He would go through them all and when he was done, he would take them outside and throw them out. The next letter he didn't recognize. But he recognized the first line in his mother's systematic hand. "Dear Charles."
There was no date, no envelope. The rest ran without breaks over several sheets of her best linen paper in the same steady, implacable stream.
Bent over the pages in the bare light he read:
I see you so seldom that now I dream about you visiting — I hear from you so seldom that now I speak to you when I am alone. I have written you many letters that you haven't answered. From how you talk when I do get hold of you, I don't know if you read them. I have written this letter but I am not going to send it. I am going to leave it here for you to find when I am gone. And then, if you want, you can read it, and if you read it you will know why I saved all these letters.
In a very large house on a green hillside in suburban Georgia, while her husband rode a lawn mower outside, Jen Crone glided barefoot across the living room, dropped into a gigantic and cushioned leather chair, tucked her feet under her and returned to her romance novel and the charms of the male love interest, a carnival roustabout named Boldo. There was something in his silence, in his perpetually dissatisfied nature that reminded her of a boy she'd dated in college. She wondered how the boy’s life had turned out. Was he happy, she wondered, idly as she might wonder about the weather on the other side of the world. Was he happy in his job? Was he happy in life? Was he happy at that very moment?
All across that green countryside in Georgia, and across the state, and across the country and the world, there were women wondering this about men they'd known, and men wondering this about women, and men of men and women of women, in a particular way, familiar to anyone who has loved, that never leads the person who’s wondering to actually stop what they're doing and find the answer.
At that moment the phone rang.