The next morning, I drove home early enough to change and get ready for work. I was already at the gate when I spotted an envelope lying on the ground. I stepped out of the car, picked it up, and slid back inside as the gate swung open. I pulled into the parking area and stopped, surprised to see Richard's car already there. Was he actually home? I hadn't expected that.
I walked slowly toward the house, opening the envelope as I went. Inside was the official investigation report from the fire incident three years ago—the one that killed our daughter, Mia. My heart stopped as I read the conclusion: it wasn't my fault. The fire had started from faulty wiring in the refrigerator, the exact issue I'd warned Richard about repeatedly, to get it fixed.
Tears blurred my vision. All these years,
