The torn edge of the missing page haunted me through the night.
I kept staring at the envelope, at my mother’s handwriting, at the way the letter ended mid-sentence, as if she had been interrupted, as if someone suddenly came into the room, as if she never got the chance to finish.
By morning, my head ached from piecing together fragments that made no sense. One thing was clear: the missing page mattered. It wasn’t just lost. Someone took it.
Someone who didn’t want me to read it.
I grabbed my car keys, determined to confront the only person alive who might know what had been written – my father.
I had barely pulled out of my driveway when my phone rang.
Daniel.
For a moment, my heart stalled. Since his collapse in the interrogation facility, every call from his number made my stoma
