Millie’s POV
The envelope sat on the mantle like a living thing.
I couldn't stop looking at it. Couldn't stop imagining what words my mother had written twenty-one years ago, what secrets she'd kept until her death, what truths she'd wanted me to know.
To my precious daughter Millie-Rose, when she's 25 or married.
Her handwriting. Her final words to me.
And I was too terrified to open it.
"You don't have to read it right now," Braham said quietly from where he sat on the couch, watching me stare at the envelope. "It's waited twenty-one years. It can wait a little longer."
"I know." I wrapped my arms around myself. "But what if there's something important in there? Something time-sensitive that I'm already too late for?"
"Then it's already too late, and reading it now won't change
