The Letter
The rain had been falling since four in the afternoon.
By nine, Maya Carter had stopped pretending she was going to cook.
The chicken was still sitting on the counter, untouched, and the rice she'd started half an hour ago had gone cold in the pot. She had forgotten to turn off the television too. Some woman on a cooking show was laughing about something Maya couldn't hear over the rain tapping against the windows.
She stood barefoot in the middle of her kitchen, staring at nothing.
It had been one of those days.
Not terrible.
Not good.
Just long.
The kind of day that made you wonder why you were tired when you hadn't done anything extraordinary.
Maya reached for her phone.
Three missed calls from her mother.
She frowned.
Her mother usually called once.
Twice if it was important.
Three times meant she was either worried or angry.
Maya sighed and called back.
Her mother answered before the first ring finished.
“Finally.”
Maya smiled despite herself.
“Hello to you too.”
“I've been calling you.”
“I was working.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I usually am.”
There was a pause.
Then her mother's voice softened.
“Did you eat?”
Maya looked at the abandoned chicken.
“I'm about to.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I ate yesterday.”
“You ate coffee and half a sandwich.”
Maya laughed quietly.
“You keeping records now?”
“I raised you. I know when you're lying.”
That made Maya smile.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
Warm.
Familiar.
Then her mother asked, “Are you coming Sunday?”
Maya's smile faded slightly.
“I'll try.”
“You said that last Sunday.”
“I know.”
“And the Sunday before.”
“I know, Mom.”
Her mother sighed.
“I just don't want you spending all your time alone.”
Maya looked toward the window.
Rain slid down the glass in crooked lines.
“I'm not alone.”
“Then who are you with?”
Maya opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her mother didn't push.
She never did when she already knew the answer.
After a moment, she said quietly, “Your father used to worry about that.”
Maya's fingers tightened around the phone.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“Mom.”
“I shouldn't have said that.”
“No.”
“Maya”
“It's okay.”
But it wasn't.
They both knew it.
Her mother changed the subject, talking about Sunday dinner, a neighbor's ridiculous new dog, and something happening at church.
Maya listened.
She laughed in the right places.
She said goodbye.
Then she placed the phone facedown on the counter.
Silence returned.
She hated how quickly it did.
Her eyes drifted toward the hallway.
There was a framed photograph of her father on the wall.
She had put it there three years ago.
Daniel Carter stood in the picture with one hand in his pocket and the other resting against the back of a chair, looking mildly annoyed at whoever had convinced him to pose.
Maya had been thirteen.
She remembered taking the photograph.
“Smile, Dad.”
“I am smiling.”
“You look angry.”
“This is my smiling face.”
“You look like you want to kill someone.”
“I probably do.”
She had laughed so hard that she'd almost dropped the camera.
Maya smiled now.
Then the smile disappeared.
She looked away.
“Goodnight, Dad,” she whispered.
It was a stupid habit.
She knew that.
He couldn't hear her.
But she still said it.
Every night.
She turned toward the living room.
That's when she noticed the envelope.
It was lying beneath the stack of mail near the front door.
Black.
Not dark gray.
Not navy.
Black.
Maya stopped.
She couldn't remember seeing it
