The letter arrived on Tuesday.
Not from a lawyer.
Not through any official channel.
Just an envelope in the post with Julia's name and address written in the handwriting she recognized from the six-line letter Daniel had shown her weeks ago.
Precise. Controlled.
Vanessa's.
Julia stood at the letterbox.
I looked at it.
Went upstairs.
Put it on the kitchen table.
Made coffee.
Look at it some more.
She didn't call Daniel. She didn't call her sister or Margaret or anyone.
She just sat with it the way she'd learned to sit with difficult things, giving it space to be what it was before she decided what it meant.
Then she opened it.
It was three pages long.
Handwritten throughout. The same precise script, slightly less controlled than Vanessa's usual not falling apart, but human
