The letter arrived on a Thursday morning.
Aria was twenty-five weeks pregnant, settling into the final trimester countdown. She'd just returned from prenatal yoga when Robert handed her the mail that were mostly catalogs and bills, but one envelope stood out.
It was Plain white, handwritten address, with no return address. It had a postmarked from a women's correctional facility upstate.
Aria's stomach dropped, because she knew that handwriting. She'd seen it on birthday cards and grocery lists for ten years.
It was from Melissa.
Aria stared at the envelope for a long moment before carrying it to the kitchen table. Her hands shook slightly as she opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper, filled with Melissa's familiar looping script.
Dear Aria,
I don't know if you'll
