The paper shook in my hands.
Not because the envelope was heavy.
Because it wasn’t.
It was only paper.
Only ink.
Only words written years ago by a woman I loved, resented, understood in pieces, and suddenly feared in a brand-new way.
My mother.
Kade stood at my side.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
Just there.
Maeve remained near the front door with the restraint of a woman who knew she had just set a fire in someone else’s house and was waiting to see whether it would burn clean or take the walls with it.
Mara, from the edge of the hall, had gone unusually still.
That scared me too.
Because Mara usually filled silence with judgment.
If even she had none ready, the contents of the letter were going to hurt.
I unfolded the first page.
The handwriting hit me first.
My mother’s.
