My mother found the letter while cleaning my room that following Monday.
“What is this,” she snapped when I came home from school that day. The letter was sitting on the kitchen table. Mom’s cheeks were flushed with anger. The last time I had seen her this worked up was when she found out I was being bullied in school.
Mom was attacking the kitchen counter with cleaner, her hands masked in yellow rubber gloves. The more emotional she was, the more she cleaned. The fact that the rubber gloves were out was a very, very bad sign.
“You probably got farther in it than I did,” I told her with a shrug.
“Why didn’t you tell me that she wrote to you? How did she even get our address?” I shrugged, again, but she was already on her next tangent of her rant, moving from the kitchen counter to the
